


Little Bird

by lbswasp



Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Joffrey is his own warning, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Strangers to Acquaintances, Tyrion makes stupid decisions when drunk, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp
Summary: When a good deed results in being married to Tyrion, family, duty and honour lead to Sansa playing the Game of Thrones from a very different position than she had expected to. No longer destined to be queen, and married to the Imp, how will Sansa cope?This retelling of Seasons 1 and 2 features a Sansa who is smarter than she lets on, a Varys with a plan, and a Tyrion who is just trying to stop the city from burning down around them.Betaed by the wonderfulbrookebond.





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about because I read the brilliant [The North Remembers](http://archiveofourown.org/series/443182) trilogy by [KR Closson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson) and [tasalmalin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tasalmalin/pseuds/tasalmalin). You know when you read a fic and it basically defines your view of a ship, and you want like another 1000 works just like that fic? Yeah. It was like that.
> 
> Unfortunately, there aren’t thousands of fics for this ship. This is literally the smallest ship I have ever sailed. So I decided to contribute! Those of you who have scoured this dinghy for every single completed scrap of Sansa/Tyrion may notice some things pulled from The North Remembers, as well as from [Wolf in the Lion’s Den](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1136488) by [BellatrixLives](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixLives/pseuds/BellatrixLives) (another good fic in this ship along a similar vein if you haven’t read it yet). These are taken out of fondness for these fics, and because there are some brilliant ideas in both fics that I wish were canon.
> 
> Part of the inspiration for this fic also came from Lauren Willig’s [Pink Carnation series](http://www.laurenwillig.com/books/index.php#pink), in which a few Regency ladies find themselves in marriages due to being compromised. My brain, circling around the idea of writing something for this ship along the lines of The North Remembers, went “yes, compromised, good. Do that.” Thus, you get...this.
> 
> I’ve changed the events of the show around slightly (given that the producers have increasingly decided to wave their hands and go “timelines? What timelines?” I feel 100% justified in doing this) but hopefully things still make sense. I’m also going to age Sansa up slightly. Because I can. This series will be the slowest of burns, however. 
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S01E08 'The Pointy End', S01E09 'Baelor' and S01E10 'Blood and Fire'.

“Lord Stark, you must be thirsty.”

Squinting in the glare of the torch, Ned looked up at the hooded figure. “Varys.” He did not take the offered flask.

Lord Varys rolled his eyes and crouched down beside the prisoner. “I promise you, it isn't poisoned. Why is it no one ever trusts the eunuch?” He took a swig from the flask to prove it wasn’t poisoned, and offered it again to Lord Stark. This time, the imprisoned Northman took the flask and began to drink. “Not so much, My Lord. I would save the rest, if I were you. Hide it. Men have been known to die of thirst in these cells.” He sighed, and wiped his nose, attempting to block out the stench of the dungeons.

Ned lowered the flask. “What about my daughters?”

“The younger one seems to have escaped the castle. Even my little birds cannot find her.”

Ned sighed. A small hope, at least. “And Sansa?”

“Still engaged to Joffrey. Cersei will keep her close. The rest of your household though, all dead, it grieves me to say. I do so hate the sight of blood.”

“You watched my men being slaughtered and did nothing.”

“And would again, My Lord. I was unarmed, unarmored and surrounded by Lannister swords. When you look at me do you see a hero?” Ned looked away from Varys’ pointed logic and took another drink. “What madness led you to tell the Queen you had learned the truth about Joffrey's birth?”

“The madness of mercy,” Ned replied, watching as Varys’ brow furrowed. “That she might save her children.”

Varys seemed unimpressed by Ned’s logic. “Ah, the children. It is always the innocents who suffer. It wasn't the wine that killed Robert, nor the boar. The wine slowed him down and the boar ripped him open, but it was your mercy that killed the King. I trust you know you are a dead man, Lord Eddard?”

Ned shifted, uncomfortable with the question. “The Queen can't kill me. Cat holds her brother.”

Varys looked like he would like nothing more than to smack Ned around the back of the head. “The wrong brother, sadly. And lost to her. Your wife has let the Imp slip through her fingers. What’s more, your son has decided to call the banners and ride to your rescue. He and his host have crossed the Neck and reached Green Fork where Tyrion Lannister, as the new Hand, seeks to defeat him.”

Ned paled. “If that's true, then slit my throat and be done with it.”

Varys shook his head. “Not today, my Lord.” He rose and started to walk away.

Quickly, hoping to keep the light with him slightly longer, Ned called out to him. “Tell me something, Varys. Who do you truly serve?”

“The Realm, my Lord. Someone must.”

 

* * *

 

Slowly, the world swam back into focus. He seemed to be moving, but he wasn’t sure how.

“You’re a shit warrior.” Ah, Bronn. Tyrion moved his head, slowly, trying to bring him into focus. He felt like he’d been stepped on, many times, by heavily armoured men.

“I’m alive?”

“You’re alive,” Bronn confirmed, sliding his sword back into his sheath.

Tyrion looked around. He appeared to be in a barrow being pulled through a battlefield. “Did we win?”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if we didn’t.”

The barrow stopped and Bronn hauled Tyrion upright. “How did our tribesmen do?”

Bronn looked reluctantly impressed. “Yeah, good.”

Tyrion followed his eyes to see two of the Painted Men and a Stone Crow happily desecrating corpses on the battlefield. Well, if they weren’t already corpses, corpses to be.

“Nice to see them getting along.”

“You’re wounded.”

Tyrion peered up to see his father, astride a grey horse, pulling up beside him. “Good of you to notice,” Tyrion replied. “I hear we won.”

Tywin’s horse shifted under him. “Huh! The scouts were wrong. There were only two thousand Stark bannermen, not twenty.”

“Did we get the Stark boy, at least?”

“He wasn’t here.”

“Where was he?”

“With his other eighteen thousand men.”

Tyrion stared after his father. “And where are they?”

“Get yourself cleaned up and come to my tent. We need to regroup — the Starks have my son.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Tyrion was in his father’s tent with the other Lannister advisors. His father didn’t seem to have moved on from his earlier thought. “They have my son.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but verbally swipe at his father. “The Stark boy appears to be less green than we'd hoped.” He poured a glass of wine, ducking the looks being sent his way.

Lord Lefford spoke up. “l've heard his wolf killed a dozen men and as many horses.”

Lord Marbrand demonstrated his position as a timid old woman, asking, “Is it true about Stannis and Renly?”

Tyrion sculled his wine.

“Both Baratheon brothers have taken up against us. Jaime captured, his armies scattered. lt's a catastrophe,” summed up Uncle Kevan. “Perhaps we should sue for peace. l'm told we still have the Stark sisters.”

“The first order of business is ransoming Ser Jaime,” began Lord Lefford, but was interrupted by the other Lords all yelling their own suggestions.

Tyrion watched as his oddly silent father continued to face the corner of the tent, seemingly ignoring all that was happening behind him.

“We can’t afford to look weak!”

“We should march on them at once!”

“First,” Uncle Kevan attempted to cut in, “we must return to Casterly Rock to raise —”

“ _THEY HAVE MY SON!_ ” Tywin finally turned and faced his vassal lords. “Get out, all of you.”

Slowly, the lords of the Lannister host rose from the table and left the tent. Tyrion made to join them, but was stopped short by his father. “Not you.”

Tyrion sat back down. His father sat down beside him at the table and poured two glasses of wine.

“You were right about the Starks. You warned me that their love for their father would lead them to do desperate things, and they have. Now Robert’s brothers are joining the war.”

Tywin shook his head slightly and continued. “We face war with three armies simultaneously. The Lannisters alone, against an experienced campaigner, an unbloodied young man, and a young wolf who, as you aptly noticed, is less green than we thought. Madness. Madness and stupidity. l always thought you were a stunted fool. Perhaps l was wrong.”

Tyrion had no idea what to make of that. “Half wrong,” he muttered. “l'm new to strategy, but unless we want to be surrounded by three armies, it appears we can't stay here.”

“No one will stay here. Ser Gregor will head out with 500 riders and set the Riverland on fire from God's Eye to the Red Fork. The rest of us will regroup at Harrenhal.” Tywin took a sip of wine. “And you will go to King's Landing.”

“And do what?” Tyrion asked, puzzled.

“Rule. You will serve as Hand of the King in my stead. You will bring that boy-king to heel, and his mother too, if needs be. Stop them from doing anything else as stupid as imprisoning Ned Stark. And if you get so much as a whiff of treason from any of the rest — Baelish, Varys, Pycelle…”

“Heads, spikes, walls.” Tyrion nodded, and Tywin inclined his head in return. “But why not my uncle? Why not anyone else? Why me?”

Tywin levelled a long stare. “Because you’re my son.”

Tyrion willed himself not to react. His father had never actually claimed him before, at least not in Tyrion’s presence.

“Oh, one more thing. You will not take that whore to court. Do you understand?”

Tywin left the tent, not bothering to see if Tyrion had anything to say in response. Tyrion sank back into his chair, taking his cup with him. He traced a finger over the rim, thinking over what his father had said. Things were happening that he hadn’t predicted. He finished his drink and set off to find Bronn. They had a long ride ahead of them.

 

* * *

 

Sansa walked into the Throne Hall, carefully dressed in a pale green dress with her hair done in the Southern style. She’d used makeup borrowed from one of her handmaidens to make her lips redder, make her cheekbones more prominent, and to make her eyes seem larger. Joffrey had complimented her when she’d used this make up the other day, and she’d noticed that the Queen and the other court ladies were always perfectly made up and fashionably dressed. She loved how people cared about their appearance here in the South, and she was going to make it clear she was a civilised Southern lady now, not an uncivilised Northern wildling.

She couldn’t get this wrong, not today. Her father was in prison and she was going to ask for mercy. She couldn’t put a foot wrong, and would have to draw on all of her court manners and lessons learned since arriving in King’s Landing to make sure she was successful.

She was going to do her duty to her family and free her father.

She greeted Ser Aron and Lord Gyles as they moved out of her way, then patiently waited as Grand Maester Pycelle finished making Janos Slynt a Lord and awarding him Harrenhal.

She refused to react when the Grand Maester called her father a traitor. It had been several weeks since he was imprisoned and the rest of their household slaughtered, and she stopped flinching at that term days ago.

Sansa watched, silently running through what she wanted to say, as the Queen dismissed a member of the Kingsguard. Lord Baelish made a quip and suddenly there were swords out. The old knight left the hall without further incident, and when the Herald called for any further petitions, Sansa knew this was her chance. She glanced at the Queen for reassurance, gathered her courage, and spoke up. She knew what she had to do.

“Your Grace.”

Cersei nodded at her and Joffrey beckoned her forward. “Come forward, my Lady.”

Sansa didn’t dare look away from Joffrey as she moved into the center of the hall, barely hearing the Herald introduce her over her pulse pounding in her ears.

“Do you have some business for the King and the Council, Sansa?” The Queen said with a kind smile. At least Sansa thought it was kind. The Queen was always kind, wasn’t she?

“I do,” Sansa nodded and knelt. She had practiced what she wanted say, rehearsing her lines and her argument in her bedchamber and in the godswood until she could beg for mercy for her father without a tremble in her voice.

Sansa would make her family proud; she would win mercy for her father and keep Joffrey’s love. She could do this. Family, honour, duty. Her mother was a Tully, and it was Tully words Sansa needed now.

Taking a deep breath, she began. “As it please your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was Hand of the King.”

The Grand Maester interrupted her with his quavering voice. “Treason is a noxious weed.” Sansa glanced at him, waiting for him to finish. He had said something similar the other day in the Queen’s solar and she had a strategy of how to argue against his single complaint. “It should be torn out, root —”

“Let her speak.” Joffrey leaned forward, interrupting the Grand Maester. “I want to hear what she says.”

Joffrey wanted to hear from her! Sansa smiled at briefly at her beloved. That had to be a good sign. “Thank you, your Grace.”

Lord Baelish spoke up from the side of the throne. “Do you deny your father's crime?”

Sansa was ready. She had prepared for this. She had practiced the words she thought would convince her Joffrey to be merciful to her father. Surely her betrothed would grant mercy to her father? “No, my Lords. I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy.”

She moved her eyes from Lord Baelish to her Joffrey. “I know my Lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him. You all know he loved him!”

She glanced at Cersei briefly before returning her gaze to Joffrey, making sure to keep her eyes soft. She’d practised her expression in the mirror, wanting to make sure she looked pretty and beseeching. “He never wanted to be Hand until the King asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or somebody. They must have lied!”

It was the only thing she could think of. Her father had to know how much she loved Joffrey, how much she wanted to be Queen. He wouldn't jeopardise her future, not on purpose. He must have been tricked somehow.

Joffrey raised his head and looked straight at her. “He said I wasn't the King. Why did he say that?”

Sansa didn’t know the answer to his question, but she could guess. “He was badly hurt in a street brawl he was trying to break up. Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy. He wasn't himself. Otherwise he never would have said it!” She said it with conviction. Nothing else made sense to her — it must have been the milk of the poppy. In his right mind her father never would have made such accusations.

Joffrey looked thoughtful and shifted in the Iron Throne. He absentmindedly caressed the pommel of one of the swords making up his seat as he raked his gaze up and down her.

“A child's faith,” interjected Lord Varys. “Such sweet innocence. And yet they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes.”

Sansa nearly frowned but caught herself in time. She was fifteen in less than a month! Hardly a babe. But she kept her thoughts off her face, only allowing herself to be seen as a young girl doing her duty by her family. She must be contrite. She must persuade them of the value of mercy.

The Grand Maester wasn't having it. “Treason is treason!”

Sansa knew she would never convince him. He was too stuck in his ways and sometimes the leering look in his eyes didn’t match his quivering voice. She didn’t trust him at all.

She glanced at the other counsellors. Lord Varys seemed to be on her side, and perhaps Lord Baelish. She couldn't read the small shift in his expression as Lord Varys had spoken. It was as though there was an entirely different conversation happening just out of her hearing. Hopefully her beloved’s counsellors would back her call for mercy. She wasn't sure, though her hope had got her this far.

The King didn't seem overly convinced. “Anything else?”

Sansa widened her eyes and bit her lip to draw attention to it. Joffrey liked her lips, he’d said so a few days earlier. “If you still have any affection in your heart for me, please do me this kindness, your Grace.”

He slowly leaned back against the back of the Throne, arms and legs splayed wide. Perhaps her words had touched him. Practising those beseeching looks in the mirror and drawing attention to her lips had been a good idea.

“Your sweet words have moved me.” Sansa nearly beamed; it had worked! But before the expression reached her face Joffrey continued.

“And my Grandfather has just won a convincing victory over your rebel brother. It was a lovely early Name Day gift, I was very pleased.”

Sansa’s smile froze before it could fully form. She'd heard rumours Robb had marched to war, but hadn't believed them. He was only sixteen! Robb had no business leading a host into battle.

“Your father has to confess, and your brother has to give up his command. One has to take the Black; the other will be exiled. Your father has to confess and say that I'm the King or there'll be no mercy for him. The Stark rebellion must end, or I will have your entire family destroyed.”

It was a victory, she thought. She hoped. Sansa gathered her wits and looked her King straight in the eyes. “They will, your Grace. The Stark rebellion will end.”


	2. The Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark was raised to be a lady - to be pretty, gentle and kind. She was taught to do good deeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've moved the Small Tourney from S02E01 ‘The North Remembers’ to here in the timeline, but the events at that Tourney play out the same (Ser Dontos being named the Fool, etc.).
> 
> Spoilery warning about attempted assault in the notes at the end.

Sansa crept slowly back to her chamber, slipping between the shadows in the quiet halls of the Red Keep. A week had passed since she begged for the King’s mercy, and there was still no word on when her father would be pardoned. She would have to try again — but every time she tried to broach the subject with the Queen, Cersei turned away. And trying to speak to Joffrey had gone...poorly. Her brother’s refusal to end his rebellion was to be taken out on her, it seemed. He'd listened to her at the Small Tourney this afternoon and spared the drunk knight's life, but he'd refused to discuss her father with her. The King didn't want to kill people on his Name Day, it seemed — nor did he want to discuss the fate of traitors.

The banquet following the Small Tourney had been intermittently awful — as Joffrey's betrothed, she had been placed at the high table; as the daughter of a disgraced traitor and sister to a rebel, she'd been relegated to the end of the table with only Tyrion Lannister to talk to.

Arriving in King’s Landing just that afternoon, Lord Tyrion had spent most of the dinner drinking, but what conversation they'd had been...not unpleasant. She'd almost smiled at some of his pithier comments about the other guests at dinner. Lord Tyrion had even, carefully, told her about his visit to Winterfell on the way back from the Wall, and about Bran’s special saddle. She'd appreciated the thought he'd shown, even if he brushed off her quiet thanks by claiming to have a soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things.

She turned the corner into a hall lined with spare bedchambers for visiting nobles. In her first few weeks of her stay in King's Landing she and Septa Mordane had walked around the Red Keep, familiarising themselves with the sprawling complex. A Queen should know her castle, after all. That knowledge was helpful, now that she was trying to keep out of Joffrey's way while trying to think of some way to help convince her betrothed to show mercy to her traitor father. During the day she took refuge in the godswood, earning a reputation for being pious that she in truth did not deserve. She still prayed, but mostly she just sat and thought. At night, she walked through barely used corridors, slipping away from Joffrey's cruelty.

She froze in the shadows, hearing someone coming towards her. Uneven footsteps, the brush of clothing, and...giggling? Carefully, she crept forward. Was the way back to her chamber blocked? Would she have to backtrack and go through more public areas of the Keep?

Peeking around the corner, Sansa relaxed. It was only Lord Tyrion, much drunker than she'd seen him when she’d slipped away from dinner. She watched in fascination as the drunk lord bounced slowly off the wall he'd just walked in to and sat down with a soft thump.

“No, not door,” she hears him mutter.

He tilted to the side and lay down, pulling his shoe off and putting it under his head. “C’n sleep here.”

Sansa frowned. She couldn't, in all honesty, leave him there. He'd done her family a favour thinking up that saddle for Bran, and had spoken to her kindly in the past. She would help him to back to the Tower of the Hand. It was ladylike to do good deeds, after all.

“My Lord,” she said softly as she stopped beside him. “Do you need help?”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion looked up. And up. And still couldn't make out the face of the woman kneeling beside him. He'd given Bronn the night off, but hadn't remembered where Cersei had moved his rooms to when he'd returned from the Battle of Green Fork. One of the towers, he knew that much. But that was okay. There was a woman with him. Women tended to turn up when he wanted them to. Whores were good like that. He’d had to leave the foreign one behind when he’d left camp several days ago, so it couldn’t be the same one. He couldn't remember where this one had come from. All he could see was that she had a very nice...

“Neck,” he slurred.

The woman reared back, her long red hair swinging forward. He watched the movement of it. It was all shiny. He liked shiny.

“My Lord?”

“Neck. Your's s’long.”

He started patting at her arm, and closed his eyes. She smelled of lemons. It was nice.

 

* * *

 

Sansa rolled her eyes upwards. He was the drunkest she had ever seen another person — not that she'd seen many drunks. Her father had frowned upon heavy drinking. Once, Robb, Theon and Jon had stolen a small cask of beer and drunk it in the stables for Robb's thirteenth Name Day. The next morning, they'd been in considerable pain — and her father had ordered them to help the blacksmith repair old horse shoes. They'd sworn never to get that drunk again.

She deliberately turned the memory aside. Thinking of her family hurt and she still didn't have an idea of how to persuade Joffrey to show mercy to her father. Perhaps aiding his uncle would help.

Sansa knelt down and carefully shook Tyrion. “My Lord, you can't sleep here. Where are your chambers?”

He lifted his head, squinting at her. “They're so-somewhere,” he slurred. “Bitch sister moved them.” His head drifting back down to his shoe.

Sansa vented her frustration with a sigh. Well, at least they were in a corridor of empty rooms used to host visiting nobles. She could get him to one of the beds and hopefully when he awoke, he'd remember where they were.

He was Hand of the King, wasn’t he? Sansa wondered if he was living in the Tower of the Hand now. It was too far from the current corridor for her to try and get him there, but it was a nice Tower to live in. She’d liked her bedchamber there.

Annoyed by the reminder of what had happened to her father, she shook the irritating man in front of her. But all that seemed to accomplish was him nuzzling his pillow of a shoe some more.

She thought fast. There was no reason for her to be in this part of the castle and if she went to find someone to help move him it would raise suspicions. Just what was she doing with her betrothed's uncle in an empty hallway after a banquet, anyway? She'd have to move him herself. She stood, opened the nearest door, and returned to him.

He was small. He should be fairly light, right?

“Oof,” she huffed as he turned out to be heavier than she expected. She couldn't carry him — she'd have to rouse him enough to get him to help move himself. “My Lord, you must wake up. We can't stay here. You need a bed.”

Muzzily, he looked up at her. “Yes, yes, s’good idea. Bed good.” With her encouragement, he slowly staggered to his feet.

Sansa was pleased. She had gotten him to move! Her shawl slid off and pooled on the floor as she hauled him upright. She figured she'd leave it — once he was in a bed, she could come back for her shawl. And his ‘pillow’.

Slowly, she shuffled them into the darkened room, towards the bed she could only vaguely see. Lord Tyrion was relatively easy to move, even if he was muttering the whole time and kept trying to walk into various bits of furniture. And her.

“‘m not sure I've ever been this drunk before. One time, I wuz drunk enough to throw up on th’ girl. Still fucked her though…”

Sansa stumbled, not expecting to hear such a crude statement coming from Lord Tyrion. He started to paw at her skirts.

“‘m sure that won't be a...a...thing tonight. 'm sure I'll fuck you just fine. Never left a whore unhappy, y’know. 'm a Lannister, 'lways pay my debts,” he slurred as he inched the fabric of her skirt up.

He thought...he thought she was a whore! He was trying to get under her dress!

“My Lord! Stop that!” Worried now, she hurriedly dragged him the last few steps to the bed. He seemed to recognise that they had reached a bed, and struggled his way onto it, still somehow clutching onto her skirt.

He grinned up at her and started to fumble with the clasps holding his jacket closed. “Look, 'sa bed. Much better than floor. We fuck ‘n comfort tonight!”

Sansa took advantage of him using his hands to remove his coat to try and turn the blankets down, but he was in the way. He was harder to maneuver into bed than Arya had been when she'd come down with a summer fever two years ago. He reached for her again and pulled her down on top of him. Moving quickly, she managed to get him if not under the covers, at least off the covers and onto the mattress. That would have to do. Maybe she could flip the covers over him to keep his hands distracted while she fled the room.

He had managed to find one of the ties at the back of her neck, however, and in the struggle to move him up the bed he managed to pull it open. Her dress slipped off one shoulder and he grinned. “Come, wench, take it off. Your Lord commands you!”

Sansa wriggled, trying to get out of his hold. She managed to slip sideways, and wound up kneeling beside the bed. Tyrion, his fingers still holding on to the tie of her dress, had followed her and sat up. She figured that while she was at the right height, she'd remove his other shoe, persuade him to lie down, get the covers over him, then make her escape (if she was lucky, when she threw his other shoe in from the corridor, she'd hit him. It would make her feel much better about this good deed that was becoming one of the most embarrassing things to happen since she came to King's Landing).

She slipped off his shoe as his fingers tangled in her hair. “Oh, 's this where you wanna start?” He grinned, pulling her face towards his cock which was starting to appreciate the tall, nice smelling woman kneeling before him. “Good idea, wench.”

At that moment, the door to the bedchamber was pushed fully open. Sansa looked over in horror, and saw Ser Lancel Lannister, his arm curled around a woman’s waist, leering at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tyrion mistakes Sansa for a prostitute, and attempts to take off her clothes and get her into bed with him. He doesn’t get very far as he’s extremely drunk; her modesty is still very much intact, and it’s much less sexual assault than we see in the show. But if attempted sexual assault isn’t your thing, feel free to skip onto the next chapter when you get to the part where Tyrion walks into various bits of furniture and talks about vomiting on a girl during sex (so classy).


	3. The Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark was taught to do good deeds. Too bad she wasn't taught that no good deed goes unpunished.

Tyrion rolled over and buried his head into the dusty pillow, smacking his lips together muzzily. And then promptly sneezed, due to the dusty nature of said pillow.

Sneezing while hungover was one of the worst decisions he'd ever made. Clutching his head, he slowly sat up in the darkened room. Where was he? This wasn't his chamber. And where was the girl? He definitely remembered taking a girl to bed last night — she had red hair, smelled of lemons, and had a very long neck. He liked long necks. They were so...necky. Graceful. Good for nibbling on.

Tyrion considered his train of thought and concluded that he was probably still slightly drunk.

He should find out where he was, then go find more wine. Best thing for a hangover, really, more wine.

Thus decided, he rolled out of the bed and tugged on his shoes. He dug out the chamberpot and had a quick piss, then tried to straighten his clothes. Batting his hair down so it looked vaguely presentable, he shuffled over and opened the door.

And immediately regretted it, seeing a smirking Lancel leaning with one boot up on the opposite wall.

“The Queen wants to see you. At once.”

 _Shit_. What now?

 

* * *

 

Sansa thought about everything that had brought her here, to the Queen's solar with the small council standing around her, and cursed herself for being a stupid little girl. And Ser Lancel for being a tattle-tale. And Lord Tyrion for being a drunk. And herself for being a stupid little girl again, just in case.

Good deeds, ha. Good deeds never did anyone good. Sansa rued the impulse that had gotten her into this mess. She was only trying to be helpful! And kind to her beloved's family. Weren't ladies and queens meant to be helpful and kind?

But now the Queen seemed so disappointed in her. Sansa felt herself wilting under Cersei’s disapproval.

“Oh, little dove. How you could treat us like this? After all the kindness we've shown you after your father's treason and your brother's rebellion.”

Grand Maester Pycelle puffed up like he was about to launch into another angry tirade against treason, but the Queen raised a hand to cut him off.

“I don't understand, Sansa. Was Joffrey's love not enough for you? He'll be heartbroken when he finds out.”

Sansa tried a desperate plea. “Your Grace, please don't tell him! I swear by the Seven, nothing happened! Lord Tyrion was drunk and attempting to sleep in the hallway! It was out of my love for Joffrey and yourself that I was trying to help him to a bed, nothing more! Please, you have to believe me. It's Joffrey I love; Joffrey I want to be with. Please don't tell him,” she implored, her lip wobbling with the onset of tears.

“Little dove, he has to know. Better to know now that his betrothed is unfaithful than after your marriage.”

“But I'm not unfaithful! I’ve never been unfaithful! I've always been faithful to Joffrey. I love him with all my heart, Your Grace. I just want to make him happy, I just want to be a good queen!” A few tears slip down her face before she could smooth her emotions back into place and replace her Court mask.

Cersei smiled gently at her. “That may be so, Sansa, but you were caught in an abandoned bedchamber, partially undressed, kneeling in front of a known whoremonger. I believe you, but others won't.” Cersei took a sip of wine before continuing. “And we can't have a queen whose virtue is compromised like this. The Realm deserves better. Joffrey deserves better.”

Behind Cersei, Lord Baelish’s eyebrow quirked. Sansa thought it looked like he wanted to say something but, after a sharp glance from Lord Varys, he subsided.

“There's nothing for it, Sansa. It's out of my hands — Joffrey deserves a wife whose virtue is as honest as her bloodline. And that's not you.” The Queen's green eyes were sad. “The compromised daughter of a traitorous house is not suitable to become royalty.”

Sansa opened her mouth to object, but didn't know what to say. She'd practiced arguing for her father's merciful treatment, but not to defend her own character after being caught in a compromising position. “Your Grace…”

Suddenly, she had an idea. “Does that mean I can go home? If I am not to marry Joffrey, surely there is no reason for me to stay?”

The Queen sighed, as though Sansa was being particularly dense. “Oh, Sansa. Leave? Leave to join your brother's rebellion?”

Sansa’s hands fluttered in her lap. “No, your Grace! I want no part in the rebellion, I've said that over and over. I am loyal to the crown, to Joffrey. I just...I just want to go home.”

Home. Winterfell. Bran and Rickon were still there. She could be the Lady of Winterfell, since she wasn't sure what would happen to her parents and Robb. She could go _home_.

She tried in vain to fight back fresh tears. She could almost smell the summer snows on the winds. Maybe she could find another direwolf to replace Lady...

Cersei gave her a pitying look and passed her a handkerchief. “I'm sorry Sansa, but that's up to your husband, not to me.”

“My husband? Your Grace, forgive me, but I'm not married.” Sansa knew she was a stupid girl, but she wasn’t that stupid. If she was no longer betrothed to Joffrey, how could she have a husband?

“Your husband to be, to be more precise.”

Sansa clutched the soiled handkerchief in her hand, her tilted head and gently furrowed brow radiating puzzlement. “I don't understand, your Grace. If I'm not betrothed to Joffrey, who…?”

Cersei sighed. “You were caught in a compromising position with my brother. You will, of course, have to marry him. It's a matter of...what were your mother's words? Ah, yes. It's a matter of duty and of honour. And family, in the end. Your children will be Joffrey's cousins, rather than... Joffrey's.”

Cersei took a triumphant sip of wine as innocent little Sansa Stark fainted in her seat. She was Queen and she would remain Queen. She refused to let Sansa Stark be the one to cast her down and take her place. With one move, she'd managed to remove any influence the girl could possibly have over Joffrey _and_ strike back at her brother for returning to King’s Landing in a position of potential power over her.

She couldn't have planned this better if she'd tried.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion waddled into the Throne Hall, annoyed. Lancel had made no attempt to match his stride to that of his shorter cousin, meaning Tyrion had had to break into a trot occasionally to keep up.

He strode through the Hall to the foot of the Throne, where Joffrey sat, a mischievous look on his face. Cersei was to his right, looking unbearably smug. On the left of the King, Littlefinger looked carefully blank; Pycelle looked carefully doddery. Varys looked briefly sympathetically at Tyrion, then schooled his features into indifference.

So. It wasn't anything to do with the war. Instead, it was a private humiliation being dished out in public. Fan-fucking-tastic. He desperately wanted more wine.

Bugger it, time to find out what was happening here. “Your Grace, I believe you sent for me?”

Joffrey smirked. “Ah, Uncle. So kind of you to finally grace us with your presence. Tell me, how was your evening after you left us last night?”

Fuck. Had something happened to the girl? If only he could remember who she was. All he could remember was a long neck, red hair, and the smell of lemons. “Uneventful, your Grace. Having displayed my talent of drinking at dinner with you, I decided to display my...other talents.”

“Oh?” The King leaned forward, as if he sensed blood.

Tyrion thought frantically. They wanted him to talk about the girl, but why? What happened to her? Where did she go? Tyrion decided to try and stall. Maybe one of the others would let something slip and he could use that to get out of whatever trouble this was.

“I quite enjoyed myself and I'm certain she did too. However, what happens between a man and woman is best left between them, your Grace, even if the man involved was me and the woman was a whore.”

There is a surrusation of noise around the room at that, but Tyrion plowed on.

“If you are looking for pointers, I'm sure I could suggest someone to teach you, however your bride to be may not enjoy some of the lessons. Northerners tend to be...cooler, or so I've experienced.”

“She's not my bride to be, not any more,” smirked Joffrey.

Tyrion spotted Sansa Stark standing stiffly between Lancel and Meryn Trant. She looked pale and humiliated. When had Joffrey decided to break off their betrothal? It couldn't have been before last night, otherwise the girl wouldn't have been at the high table with them. And why was Cersei letting Joffrey break this engagement? Sansa Stark was the key to the North, particularly now that her brother was in open rebellion. Marrying the Stark girl would cement the alliance between the North and the Crown. The North was too large, too wild to be subdued by an army. It was only through the willingness of the Starks as Wardens of the North that the North was a part of the Seven Kingdoms in the first place. It may have been cold, barren, and poor in mineral wealth, but the North was too dangerous to the South to let it remain independent.

Tyrion had the sinking suspicion this was exactly what his father had meant when he had said that Tyrion should stop his sister and nephew from doing anything stupid.

“She's yours.” Cersei sounded delighted. “The whore you admitted to displaying your... other talents with last night was none other than our little dove. Stealing your nephew's betrothed, is there nothing that is beneath you?”

Tyrion was aghast. He couldn’t have slept with her. Sansa Stark, by any and all accounts, was a sweet, cautious, pious girl, gently reared and properly spoken. He’d spoken to her a handful of times, and every time she’d shown herself to be nothing more, nor less, than that. There was no way she'd have fucked him. Or let him fuck her. He may be older, but she had the longer reach. Even if he was drunk enough to force himself on her, surely she was strong enough, and sensible enough, to fight him off? Though, she did have red hair. And a very long neck.

Tyrion had a sinking suspicion that Cersei was very deliberately making a mountain out of a molehill for her own gain. If this involved ruining other peoples’ lives, then Cersei would enjoy it all the more.

“There are very few things beneath me, beloved sister. After all, I am very short.”

Joffrey grinned. “Well, soon you won't be short a wife.”

Cersei looked unbearably smug as she elaborated. “You and Lady Sansa were seen in an intimate embrace in one of the empty bedchambers in the Courcel wing. You have a choice; condemn her as a whore or marry her. Which will it be?”

 

* * *

 

“Lord Stark.”

Squinting in the glare of the torch, Ned looked up at the woman walking towards him carrying a torch. The light glinted off her golden hair and the brocade on her dress.

“Your Grace. Forgive me if I do not stand.”

His sore leg throbbed. It had gotten infected in the damp, musty conditions of the Red Keep’s cells.

Unlike his previous visitor, the Queen had not brought him a flask to drink from, nor did she kneel down to his level. She stayed looking down at him, holding the torch in one hand and covering her mouth and nose with the sleeve of the other.

Even with half her face covered by her sleeve, Ned could tell the Queen was pleased. She had come to gloat, though he wasn’t sure what about. Gathering his courage, he decided to tackle his visitor’s motives head-on.

“Why are you here, your Grace?”

Cersei’s eyes glittered. “I’m hear to tell you the happy news, Lord Stark. Your daughter is to be married.”

“My daugher? Sansa?” Sansa was only fourteen! A betrothal at that age was one thing, but a marriage? Had she flowered?

“Well, it’s certainly not the other one.”

Ned’s thoughts raced. He’d half expected Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey to have been dissolved with him in prison and his family in rebellion. “I’m glad that my actions haven’t disrupted Robert’s plans to help tie our families together.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed at the mention of her former husband. “Sansa isn’t marrying Joffrey. She’s the daughter of a house in open rebellion to the Crown. Joffrey deserves better than her.”

“Then who is she marrying?”

The Queen moved her sleeve so he could see her delighted smile.

“The man she was caught tumbling into bed with in an abandoned bedchamber.”

Cersei laughed outright at the expression on Ned’s face.

“Oh yes. Your prim and proper little lady of a daughter is nothing more than a wolf bitch in heat, entrapping the richest man she could find into marriage.”

Ned could only gape. “Your Grace…”

It didn't make sense. Sansa was prim and proper — always. It drove her sister mad and made her mother proud. There had to be some other explanation as to why she was in that bedchamber — if that was even what happened.

“...are you sure it was her?” A feeble response, but it was all Ned’s sluggish, fevered brain could come up with.

“Oh yes, she admitted it. As did he, in front of the whole court.”

Something still seemed wrong. The Queen seemed far too thrilled with his daughter's disgrace. There had to be something else, something that he wasn't seeing.

“May I ask who has the honour of becoming my good-son?”

The Queen's grin turned positively feral, the torch light making her eyes gleam victoriously.

“Within a sennight your daughter will be wed to the Imp.”

 


	4. The Last Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion have a conversation, and then Tyrion and Bronn have a conversation (Bronn is no help at all). Sansa comes to a conclusion, and Podrick comes to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve changed the rules of inheritance for the North to that of equal primogeniture, because why not? Also, Bronn is a leech with no morals. Please excuse him.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S03E07 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' and S0308 'Second Sons'. If you recognise it, it's probably not mine.

Tyrion showed Sansa into his office in the Tower of the Hand. For once, he was at a loss for words. He was still uncertain how Sansa had been caught in an abandoned bedchamber with him, but apparently she had been.

He winced, remembering how he had referred to her as a whore in front of the entire court, not knowing it was, well, her. What an excellent start to a betrothal.

It was hard to know who was getting the worst end of this arrangement, though it was most probably Sansa. He at least was marrying a young, beautiful girl, who in time would become a young, beautiful woman.

She was marrying a lecherous imp some years her elder and in the process, giving up her chance to be Queen. This was undoubtedly worse for her.

He watched as she took in the office, his fingers twitching slightly. He hadn’t time to make any changes to how her father had decorated it — though given there were falcons all over the walls, it seemed her father hadn’t had time to change Jon Arryn’s decorating style. He wanted to pour himself a glass of wine, but given that his drinking had seemingly gotten them into this situation, maybe he should give it a break.

“My Lady…” he sighed. This was going to be awkward.

Sansa turned to face him, her pale face showing no emotion and her hands slowly wringing a handkerchief.

“My Lady, what happened last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I have vague memories of red hair, a neck, and being tumbled into bed. I remember nothing more than that.”

Sansa turned and leaned her shoulder against the window frame, looking out over the city.

“Growing up in Winterfell, all I ever wanted was to escape. To come here, to the capital, to see the Southern knights in their painted armour and King’s Landing after dark. All the candles, burning in all those windows.”

She sighed and dropped her head. “I was so stupid. A stupid little girl, with stupid dreams.”

She turned to face him, tears dripping down her face.

“My Lord, you were drunk. I was trying to get back to my chamber without bumping into the King or his guards, and found you in a corridor. You were so drunk, you were trying to sleep on the floor using your shoe as a pillow.”

He winced. “Not my finest hour.”

She glare she sent him through her tears was truly frightening. “No my Lord, it was not.”

She pushed off from the window frame and walked further into the office. “It’s not _right_ for the Hand to sleep in a hallway. I knew the hallway we were in had empty bedchambers, so I thought I would help you into one. As a good deed to my good family-to-be. You did not make it easy, my Lord.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Surely I am small enough for you to manhandle?”

Sansa snorted, then looked embarrassed at the unladylike sound. “You are surprisingly heavy, my Lord. I managed to get you onto your feet, but steering you into the room was…”

“Steering me into the room was?” he coaxed. So far, the story seemed innocent enough. She really was a sweet child, to want to help a drunk like him out.

“You mistook me for a whore!” Sansa blushed a mortified red. “You kept trying to get under my skirts and babbling about how you always pay your whores well and trying to take your clothes off and you managed to undo the top of my dress and you wouldn’t let go of me and when I got you on the bed I tried to take your other shoe off so you’d be more comfortable and you grabbed my hair and you wouldn’t let go!” She collapsed in a pile of skirts in the middle of the office, crying in earnest now.

“And then Lancel walked in. Lancel walked in and saw us and wouldn’t listen to my explanations and told the Queen and now it’s all gone wrong! I was meant to marry Joffrey and be queen! I wanted to marry Joffrey, and have his beautiful blonde children. I was trying to do a nice thing, a kind thing, because queens are meant to be nice and kind, but I’m nothing more than a stupid little girl and it’s all gone wrong!”

Tyrion looked on as the girl sobbed her heart out. He wanted to comfort her, as he loathed seeing women cry, but wasn’t sure how she’d take it.

Gradually, he moved towards her, and gently placed his hand on her back. When she didn’t start or shove him away, he started to stroke up and down her back.

“Shush, shush, it’ll be alright. We’ll make it alright.”

Seemingly too lost in her emotional storm to notice who was giving her comfort, Sansa turned towards Tyrion, and continued to cry into his chest.

 

* * *

  

“She’s a child.”

Bronn had finally returned from wherever-the-fuck he’d disappeared to when Tyrion had given him the night, and Tyrion was updating him on his upcoming nuptials over a large jug of wine. Reducing your betrothed into hysterical tears for an hour over your despicable behaviour was as good a reason as any to drink a large amount of wine and curse yourself at the same time.

“She’s a foot taller than you.” Tyrion wondered when Bronn had actually seen Lady Sansa, though he had a good point.

“A _tall_ child.”

Bronn seemed unimpressed. “What’s the youngest you’ve ever had?”

Tyrion’s eyes bugged out. “Not that young!”

“How much older?”

Tyrion fiddled with his cup, dearly wishing the conversation would move on. “Older.”

Bronn took a swig of wine and plonked his cup down. “You’re a lord, she’s a lady, and a beauty at that. I don’t see the problem.” He nibbled on a bit of fruit.

“The problem is, she’s a child, and we’re being forced into this due to my sister.”

Bronn’s expression showed what he thought of that argument.

“You’re a lord, she’s a lady,” he repeated. “Neither of you could have honestly expected a love match. She’s already had one betrothal, and I’m amazed after your previous marriage that your father didn’t try and wed you off long before this.” Tyrion looked away. His marriage to Tysha was not something he ever wanted to think about.

“Wed her and bed her. Chances are high her kin won’t survive their rebellion so she’ll inherit Winterfell. You get one of the most beautiful women in the Seven Kingdoms in your bed, and a whole kingdom of your very own.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Even if her older brother’s rebellion fails, she has younger brothers. One of them would be the Heir to Winterfell, not her.”

Bronn sipped his wine. “You’re thinking like a Southerner. They practice equal succession in the North — if her brother is banished or dies, your Stark girl as next oldest Stark child inherits Winterfell. Which means your child would inherit Winterfell. Though first, you’d have to get a child on her. Shouldn’t be hard — she’s gorgeous, and you’ve had a lot of practice.”

Tyrion blushed, and Bronn broke into mocking laughter.

“What?” Tyrion demanded.

“You want to fuck that Stark girl, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“She’s _still_ a child.”

“She won’t always be a child. Fuck her then.” Bronn got up to get a fresh jug of wine.

Tyrion sighed. “I don’t pay you to put evil notions in my head. The ones already there don’t need company.”

Bronn grinned, bringing the jug back and filling up Tyrion’s cup. “No, you pay me to kill people who bother you. The evil notions come free.” With that, he clapped Tyrion on the back and refilled his cup. The Hand and his sellsword spent the rest of the afternoon determinedly working through as much wine as they could get their hands on.

 

* * *

 

Sansa wiped the tears from her face as she walked through the godswood, feeling every inch a ridiculous little girl. All she’d ever wanted was to marry a dashing young knight and live in a fairy tale. How had it all gone so wrong? _Why_ had it all gone so wrong? She was a good person, she didn’t deserve this!

Blinded by her tears, she tripped over an exposed root, and fell to her knees in front of a large puddle. The fall jarred her out of her misery for a moment. Blearily, she looked at her reflection in the puddle. She looked...awful. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes swollen, her lips chapped.

She remembered her mother telling her that redheads always showed it the worse when they had been crying. It’s a good idea, her mother had said, to learn how to cry on the inside, not the outside. Better for pale complexions like ours.

Sansa had been doing a lot of crying on the outside since she’d come to King’s Landing. She picked herself up, and walked on towards the heart tree, trying to pull herself together.

Enough. She was acting like a spoiled child whose favourite toy had been taken away. She wasn’t a spoiled child, she was a young lady who was to be wed within the sennight. Well, almost a lady. She still hadn’t flowered, but that would come in time.

She knelt in front of the heart tree, and gathered her thoughts.

Her parents had been an arranged match. Her mother had been betrothed to her father’s elder brother, and when he’d died in Robert’s Rebellion, had married her father instead.

Had she cried when she learned she was to marry someone other than she was expecting? Sansa had never thought to ask — her parents had always seemed so in love.

When Sansa next saw her mother, she would ask. She doubted her family would be able to come to the wedding, so when she next saw her mother, she’d be a married lady.

She’d be Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock.

That...that was something to think about. Sansa realised that as Lady of Casterly Rock, she might have a way to leave this place. And she would do anything to leave this place. Maybe, once she left here, she could find her family. Lord Tyrion had spoken kindly about her family at Joffrey’s Name Day feast — perhaps he wouldn’t mind if she went back to Winterfell.

And Lord Tyrion was the Hand of the King, or at least acting as Hand. Perhaps he could convince Joffrey to offer mercy to her father, and brother, and mother. Maybe he could even find her sister. If she stopped acting like a spoiled child, and made him happy, maybe her family would be safe.

Offering a final prayer to the heart tree, Sansa stood, shaking out her skirts. Her parents had had an arranged match, and they’d made it work. Sansa would do no less. It wasn’t the life she’d dreamed about as a foolish little girl, but she could make it work.

She _would_ make it work, and she would save her family, and leave King’s Landing and Joffrey far behind.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion frowned down at his papers. He was redrawing the campsites for his hillmen — the perilous peace between the Stone Crows and the other tribes was breaking down. Again. This was the 3rd time this sennight one of the other chieftains had come to him, complaining that a Stone Crow had cut the cock off one of their men.

He'd wondered when he'd be able to give the hillmen the gold and the Vale as he'd promised. He'd honestly been pulling shit out of thin air in his desperation to stay alive, and he had no idea how he was going to be able to pay this particular debt.

He looked up at the knock on the door, and called out for them to enter.

One of his guardsmen entered, followed by a young man wearing Lannister colours and clutching a letter in his hand.

“A courier from your father, m’Lord.” The guard bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Oh wonderful. Well, boy, bring it here. Any oral messages to pass on?”

The boy gulped and shook his head. He looked like he was trying to stand to attention, but failed miserably, hunching in on himself.

Tyrion dismissed him with a glance. If he was waiting, it must mean his father required a prompt response. He cracked the seal on the letter, addressed to him from his father.

 _Tyrion,_  
_The deliverer of this message is your new squire, Podrick Payne. The battles against the Starks continue to be in our favour._

Tyrion turned the paper over, but that was all his father had written.

A squire? He hardly needed a squire. He wasn’t in battle, and wasn’t likely to be back in battle any time soon. He wasn’t a knight, so he couldn’t knight the boy in turn.

This seemed a cruel jape by his father, but he wasn’t sure who the jape was aimed at — himself, or the boy.

“Payne. Any relation to Ilyn Payne?”

The boy nodded.

“...are you able to talk?”

The boy nodded again.

“Are you sure? Do you have a tongue?”

The boy nodded again.

“I’m not sure I believe you. Stick it out so I can see.”

The boy did. Tyrion was a bit surprised the boy had done so — he’d meant as a joke.

“Yes, definitely a tongue,” he said. “Someday you must learn to use it.”

The boy nodded.

Tyrion sighed. The jape was on him, it seemed. “Make yourself useful and fetch me some wine.”

 

* * *

 

 There was a knock at the door, and one of the handmaidens loaned to Sansa by the Queen hurried to open the door. Sansa looked at the doll her father had given her that was propped up on the table, seeing in the mirror the door open and her pre-wedding visitor enter.

It was Lord Tyrion, accompanied by his new squire. The boy had run a few notes between Sansa and her husband to be over the past few days as they finalised wedding details, and blushed madly but refused to speak every time he was in her presence. She still didn’t know his name.

Sansa took a deep breath and stood. Her borrowed handmaidens had done their jobs, and she was as ready as she’d ever be. She looked every inch the young Southern maiden ready for her wedding.

“Lady Sansa,” he began, drifting off with an awkward smile.

Sansa smiled slightly. She would have to get this conversation going, it seemed. “You look very handsome, my Lord.” He did, too. The deep red jacket looked very fine on him, and his hair had been brushed to a high sheen.

“Oh, yes, the husband of your dreams.” He dropped his hands to his sides and grimaced.

Suddenly, his eyes widened in a panic. “But, you do look glorious!” he said, sincerity obvious in his eyes and voice.

She smiled, and dipped into a small curtsey. He could be so endearingly awkward at times. It was almost...cute. “Thank you, my Lord.”

He shuffled, awkwardly. “Perhaps we could have a moment alone? Do you mind?”

“Not at all, my Lord.”

“Podrick, could you please escort Lady Sansa’s handmaidens?”

One or two quick final touches to her dress and hair then the handmaidens left in a flutter of brightly coloured long skirts. The young squire — Podrick — closed the door softly behind them, leaving Sansa and Tyrion staring at each other across the room.

“My Lady.” Tyrion crossed the room to her. “I want you to know...I’m sorry. I’m sorry for getting us into this situation. I didn’t ask for this, and I know you didn’t either.” He sounded desperately unhappy.

Sansa stiffened. She’d felt they had come to an agreement over the past sennight — the notes they’d exchanged were friendly, and their occasional face to face meetings perfectly civil. They hadn’t had many, as his work as the Hand kept Tyrion busy, but she’d thought they were getting along well. It worried her that he sounded so unhappy. As his wife, there was a chance she could leave King’s Landing. As Hand, he could pardon her family, or at least convince the King to pardon them. And help find her sister. But he wouldn’t do that if he was unhappy.

“I hope I will not disappoint you, my Lord,” she mumbled. She didn’t want to cry and ruin the makeup the handmaidens had so carefully applied, but she knew that most men were susceptible to tears. A lifetime of growing up surrounded by men had taught her that.

“No, don’t...you don’t have to speak to me as if you were a prisoner any more. You won’t be a prisoner after today, you’ll be my wife.” He paused, reflecting. “I suppose that’s a different kind of prison.” He chuckled slightly, then stopped, eyes widening in mortification.

Her father. Her father was still in the prison cells below the Red Keep. She’d asked if he could attend her wedding but had been told it was not possible.

“I just wanted to say —” he stumbled over the words.

“I’m just trying to say,” he restarted, gesturing with his right hand in circles, “Very badly...I just want to say I’m sorry. I know how you must feel.”

Sansa dropped her hands to her sides. “I doubt that very much, my Lord.”

He seemed to accept her censure. “You’re right, I have no idea how you feel. And you don’t know how I feel.” He paused, and quirked his lips into a small smile.

He walked right up to her, and took her hand. “But I promise you one thing, my Lady. I won’t ever hurt you, not today, and not ever.”

She nodded slightly, and his face split into a relieved smile before scrunching into curiosity.

“Do you drink wine?” he asked.

“When I have to,” Sansa answered. She didn’t really have a taste for it.

“Well, today you have to.” And with that, her betrothed grinned happily at her, and she found herself smiling back. He was kind, and awkward, and a little bit endearing. She remembered the promise she’d made herself in the godswood. She would make this work, and maybe she could go home. She could save her family and go home.

Her betrothed took her arm and together they walked out of her chamber.


	5. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding of Sansa and Tyrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just gonna pretend there’s a town called Green Fork that was somewhere near where the Battle of Green Fork was fought. After all, it’s a long river.  
> Some dialogue taken from S03E08 'Second Sons'.

Sansa approached the opening doors of the Great Sept, heart in her mouth. These were her last few moments as a Stark — soon, she would have a new family. But duty and honour to her old family would remain. This marriage to Tyrion would help free her family. It just had to.

She wished her father was here to walk her into the Sept. She wished her mother had been there this morning, helping style her hair in the Northern fashion rather than the uncomfortable Southern style. She wished she didn’t have to go through with this at all. But she would make the best of it. She had to.

She paused at the top of the stairs, gazing down on the guests, and seeing her groom standing at the alter. He sent her a concerned look, and that’s when she spotted Joffrey coming towards her on the right.

“What are you doing, your Grace?” He wasn’t meant to be up here. He was meant to be down with the rest of the guests.

“As your father is...indisposed, as the father of the Realm, it is my duty to give you away to your husband.”

Northern marriages before the heart tree are much more sensible, Sansa thought. They at least understand that the woman is her own to give away. But she couldn’t argue with the King, not here, not now. So, slowly and reluctantly, Sansa took Joffrey’s arm and let him walk her down the aisle.

Most of the guests showed little emotion as the daughter of a traitor walked arm in arm with the King, though the sellsword she’d seen in her husband’s company did sketch a small bow at her, a mocking smile on his face. Lord Varys gave her a kind smile as she passed him, while Lord Baelish looked distinctly unhappy.

She lifted her stiff brocade skirts and climbed the stairs to her waiting husband-to-be, a heavy-looking cloak slung over his arm.

Having delivered her to the altar, Joffrey turned and smirked at his uncle. Joffrey then stooped and grabbed the stool that was discretely positioned beside Tyrion and took it with him as he descended the steps and stood beside his mother and the other guests.

“You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection,” intoned the High Septon.

Ah. So that was what the stool had been for. She was much taller than her husband to be, after all.

Well, no need to make things undignified. Sansa bowed her head, and turned her back to Tyrion before kneeling before the altar, fanning her skirts around her as she did so.

He placed the heavy cloth of gold Lannister cloak around her shoulders, and she slowly rose. She noticed that Tyrion carefully adjusted how it hung as she stood, and she approved. It showed he cared for how they looked, if nothing else.

The High Septon gave her a sharp look of disapproval for her change to the wedding ceremony, but when she just innocently gazed back at him, began to speak.

“Your Grace, your Grace,” he nodded at the King and his mother, “My Lords and Ladies, we stand here in sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife.”

Sansa noticed Tyrion look up at her at that, but kept her focus on the High Septon.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!”

She took a deep breath. She was no longer a Stark of Winterfell, but a Lannister of Casterly Rock.

The High Septon droned on for a little while longer, but the important parts of the ceremony were done. She was under the protection of her husband. She was no longer alone at court.

* * *

Tyrion had filled his goblet entirely to the brim and was grinning at her, like her brothers had used to do when they’d found something squishy and disgusting they wanted to show her. Sansa shot him the same look she used to send them, but he didn’t seem deterred. Oh well. If he couldn’t drink all the wine he wanted during their wedding feast, when could he?

She’d lost interest in the food on her plate. It was awkward, sitting silently up here, with no one to talk to but her increasingly drunk husband.

Noticing that the bride and groom had finished eating, the guests began to approach with gifts for the new couple.

Lord Varys was one of the first to approach. Sansa was thrilled at the yards of Myrish silk the Master of Whispers gave her, and her new husband seemed genuinely touched at the books on dragons he received from his friend.

Lord Baelish was the next to come forward, gifting a heavy book to her and wine to her husband.

“ _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ ,” she read. She noticed Lord Varys, back in his seat but within earshot, stiffen.

“I know you are well versed in the Northern Houses, my Lady, but I thought you might find it interesting to learn more about those in the rest of the Kingdoms,” Lord Baelish responded, an oily smile on his face.

“Thank you, my Lord. It is a thoughtful gift.” He bowed, and made room for their other guests to bring gifts. They were mostly small items — more wine, more fabrics. Sansa received a particularly fine book of prayers to the Old Gods from a minor lord who she had occasionally seen in the godswood, though Lord Tyrion received far more books than her. Most people gave Sansa minor pieces of jewellery — though it seemed the majority of pieces were either religious in theme or obviously unfashionable cast-offs.

It seemed her reputation boiled down to “pious; likes to sew” while her husband’s was “drunk; likes to read.”

One memorable exception was from her husband’s hill tribes. The female chieftain moved forward from the table at the back of the room where the chiefs of the hill tribes had been sat under the less than watchful eye of her husband’s sellsword, and approached the high table where Sansa and Tyrion sat.

She lifted her head like a queen. “I am Chella, daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears. We followed your half-man into battle, and found him...adequate.”

Beside her, Tyrion raised his glass in salute, his lips twisted into a wry smile.

“But we are concerned he will not always be able to protect you. So Chella, daughter of Cheyk, is gifting you this.” Chella plunked a bow and arrow on the table in front of Sansa.

“The half-man gets no gifts until he pays what he owes us!” a hillman roared from the back of the room.

Cautiously, Sansa reached out her hand and touched the fletching on the arrows. She wasn’t sure how to respond. The gift was an unusual one and she didn’t want to give offense to the hill tribes who her husband had formed an alliance with. And was Cheyk Chella’s mother or father? She took a deep breath and hoped, her mother's words ringing in her ears: _A lady's courtesy is her armour._

“I, Sansa, daughter of Catelyn, thank you for your gift, Chella, daughter of Cheyk. I confess, I have never learnt how to use a bow, despite living in the North. If you, or one of your tribe, had time to teach me, I would appreciate it.”

Chella nodded and returned to her table.

“Nicely done, my Lady,” Tyrion murmured as Sansa handed the bow and arrow to an attendant. “How did you know Cheyk was her mother?”

Sansa flashed her husband a quick smile. “I guessed.”

Eventually the Queen moved forward. “Lady Sansa. Now that you are a woman wed, it is time for you to have your own handmaidens.” Sansa saw through the pleasantry to the insult below. She had had her own handmaiden! But Megyn, along with the rest of the household, had been slaughtered when her father was captured. Despite understanding the Queen’s slight, Sansa refused to let anything but polite interest show on her face. It was her wedding. She could rise above this.

At the Queen’s signal, a door at the side of the room opened and three beautiful women entered.

Beside her, Lord Tyrion sat bolt upright, his wine dripping out of his cup onto the table. He stared at one of the handmaidens, seemingly without blinking; when Cersei saw this, her lips curled into a satisfied smile. “I present Shae, from Green Fork.” The pretty dark-haired girl dipped into a shallow curtsey, her eyes never leaving Tyrion.

“Aly, from Sisterton.” Her red hair, nearly the shade of Sansa’s, swung forward as she dipped into a more proper curtsey.

“And Tysha, from Lannisport.” Sansa felt more than saw her new husband flinch at those words. Tyrion stopped looking at the dark-haired girl and focused on the curtseying blonde. What he saw made his skin take on an unhealthy pallor.

She thought fast. Of the three handmaidens, two had caused her husband to react strangely. She didn’t want to have issues between her husband and her handmaidens, not if she was going to be able to convince him to pardon her father, find her sister, and let her go home. She would have to refuse two of the handmaidens.

Sansa took a deep breath, and chose her most innocent voice to respond with. “Your Grace, you are too kind. I don’t need three handmaidens — there is only one of me, and my husband’s squire does a fine job of seeing to his needs. We are a small household, after all.”

Some of the more unkind members of court laughed at her inadvertent insult to her husband. She blushed, realising what that had sounded like, but soldiered on.

“I would like Aly to serve as my handmaiden. The other two I dismiss into your service.” She smiled sweetly to take the sting out of her words.

It might be useful, she mused, to have a handmaiden that could pass for her at a distance.

Beside her, Tyrion downed his goblet of wine, and quickly poured another, then downed that and poured another.

* * *

He was too sober for this. Far too sober. Where the fuck had Cersei found Shae? He’d left her with the rest of the army when he’d ridden south on his father’s orders. Tyrion had decided that this opportunity was too good for him to pass up, and that following his father’s command was the best idea.

So how had Shae turned up in King’s Landing? Who had seen her, had known about the connection to him? It had to be deliberate. It was too cruel to be accidental.

Seven Hells. Had the woman followed him?

And Tysha. It wasn’t his Tysha — even after all these years Tyrion knew he’d recognise her the moment he saw her — but the resemblance was there.

Was her name even Tysha?

He was suddenly, viciously glad his wife had reacted the way she had. He didn’t need the pain of hearing the name Tysha spoken in his presence. And having Shae around probably wasn’t a good idea either. He should try and avoid her, out of respect for his vows.

He did mean to respect his vows. He was a Lannister — he always paid his debts, and he kept his vows. After all, vows were just another form of debt, weren’t they?

He threw back more wine. This was turning into more of a disaster than he’d expected his marriage to a child bride would naturally turn out to be.

Oops, that wine had spilled a bit. He wiped his face on the tablecloth, which was seemingly the last straw for his new bride.

“Will you pardon me, my Lord?”

“Of course, of course,” Tyrion drunkenly slurred at her. “Enjoy.” Sansa rose, and started to circulate amongst their guests, many of whom wished her happy and complimented her beautiful dress. She was soon engaged in conversation with Lord Varys and one of the young ladies from another House in the Westerlands. Lady Lefford, he thought she was.

Tyrion threw back a few more cups of wine. It was a man’s duty to get a drunk as possible at his wedding, after all. He certainly didn’t think he’d be called on to do his other wedding night duties tonight. He was fairly sure his new bride hadn’t flowered yet, or she’d have been married off to Joffrey already. This entire arrangement was a sham Cersei had manipulated into place.

His bride finished her conversation with Varys and the Westerlady and went to leave the room accompanied by her new handmaiden.

Her progress was interrupted by his nephew grabbing her by the arm and leaning in close. Tyrion couldn’t hear what he was saying, but saw his bride’s back go rigid as the King pulled her back into the room proper. There was a look of rage on her face, quickly hidden as Joffrey turned and faced the room.

Tyrion frowned. There was something not right there.

Suddenly, the King clapped his hands, bringing the attention of the room to him. “Time for the bedding ceremony!”

 _Fuck that._ “There will be no bedding ceremony,” Tyrion slurred. He’d fucked a lot of women, but never with an audience. He’d been the audience when Tysha had been fucked by his father’s guards, and had never had an audience since.

“Where’s your respect for tradition, uncle?” roared the King as he dragged Sansa back to the high table. “Come, everyone, pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed! Get rid of her gown, she won’t be needing it any longer! Ladies! Attend to my uncle, he’s not heavy.”

His bride curled her arms around her and sent him a pleading look.

Time to stop this. “There will be no bedding ceremony,” Tyrion repeated.

“There will be, if I command it!” Joffrey sneered.

Tyrion grabbed his knife and stabbed it into the table. “Then you’ll be fucking your own bride, whoever she eventually is, with a wooden cock.” Joffrey didn’t look impressed with the threat.

“What did you say?” asked the King. “What did you _say_?” he roared, louder than before.

 _Shit. Too far._ “I’m sorry, your Grace,” slurred Tyrion. “A bad joke. Made out of envy of your own royal manhood. Mine is so small my poor wife won’t even know I’m there.”

He took a last sip of wine, and fell off his chair as he pushed it back.

“But, it is my wedding night. My tiny drunk cock and I do have a job to do.” He deliberately stumbled into the table Cersei and her children had been sitting at earlier, knocking the contents of his sister’s wine glass into her lap. “Come, wife!”

His wife sent him a furious glare but followed him as he left the room. “I vomited on a girl once, middle of the act, not proud of it. But I think honesty is important between a husband and wife, don’t you agree? Come, I’ll tell you all about it, put you in the mood!”

* * *

Tyrion showed his bride into his rooms in the Tower, and closed the door behind them as she peered around the main room. She seemed nervous, her hands twisting in each other, and he sighed. Time to drop the drunken act now they were alone.

He did, however, pour himself another goblet of wine. It was there, after all, and he suspected the conversation to follow was about to be an awkward one.

“Is that wise, my Lord?” So she can speak! He’d begun to wonder, as he’d trotted out drunken story after story on their walk back to the Tower and she hadn’t made a sound.

“It’s Tyrion, Sansa,” he murmured. “My name is Tyrion.”

“Is that wise, Tyrion?” she repeated.

“Nothing was ever wiser,” he replied, lifting his goblet in salute.

He perched on the lounge across from her and decided it was now or never. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Fourteen, my Lor-Tyrion. My fifteenth Name Day is tomorrow.”

“Well. Not much time for me to find you a gift, but I shall do my best.” His new wife smiled sweetly, and dropped her hands.

“This is typically the part where we should consummate our marriage.” Her smile disappeared and Sansa turned white. Hands shaking, she moved towards the table and poured herself a goblet of wine and knocked it back in two gulps.

Tyrion was rather impressed. For someone who professed to only drinking wine when she had to, Sansa sure could down it when the need arose.

She put the glass on the table, then slowly moved towards the bed she could see through the open door in the next room. Tyrion followed and leaned against the door, watching as she removed the bands of fine embroidery from her dress, carefully laying them aside. She then undid and removed her heavy brocade dress, leaving her standing a shift.

He couldn't move. This felt wrong.

She started to slip the shift from her shoulder, and he couldn’t take it any longer. “Stop.”

Sansa turned to look at him.

“You haven’t flowered yet, have you?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“No, my Lor-Tyrion. Not yet.”

He sighed, almost relieved. She was a child still. There went the last little bit of pressure he felt to take her to bed tonight.

“I won’t share your bed. Not until you are a woman, and you want me to.”

She fiddled with her necklace. “What if I never want you to?”

He closed his eyes and turned away. Damn his morals. They were going to get him in trouble some day.

He turned back to his wife, standing with arms wrapped around her, in nothing more than her shift, and lifted his goblet in a lazy salute. “And so my watch begins.”

He collapsed back onto the lounge in the main room. The last thing he saw as he closed his eyes was the young girl he’d been forced to wed, staring at him as she stood abandoned by the bed.


	6. The Next Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days after Sansa and Tyrion's wedding.

Sansa woke slowly the next morning, unsure of where she was. This didn’t feel like the lumpy mattress she’d been sleeping on since her father had been arrested.

Snuggling further into the comfortable bedding, she let her eyes drift open. As the elaborate hangings and piles of books came into focus, the realisation of where she was slammed into her.

She was back in the Tower of the Hand. She was married to this Hand. And she was in his bed.

Pulling the sheets up to her chin, she raised her head. The door to the other room was still closed, just as she'd left it the night before.

Slowly she relaxed her grip on the sheets and slid out of the bed. She tugged on a dressing gown, brushed out her hair, and left the room.

Her husband was still fast asleep on the lounge, where he’d passed out last night.

She’d wondered at the time whether she should try and move him to the bed in a gesture of wifely feeling, but given how well trying to get a drunk Tyrion into a bed had worked for her last time, she’d decided against it.

She had tucked a blanket around him and worked a pillow under his head. He’d been kind, not insisting on bedding her. She wondered how long that kindness would last.

Sansa was trying to work out if she should wake him when the door opened and her new maid peeked in.

Seeing her mistress awake, Aly entered the room fully.

“My Lady. Shall I fetch breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you. I prefer a light breakfast in the morning, with juice, not wine. Bring enough for both of us, please.” She felt awkward, giving orders as if she was a grand lady.

But this is what she had been trained for. While her brothers were learning how to fight, she’d been learning to manage a castle. She’d helped her mother with the accounts and provisions just as she’d sat her turn in the Great Hall at Winterfell, watching and learning how her father heard petitions and gave judgements. Of course, at the time she’d been sulky at having to take time out from her sewing and reading about noble knights and their beautiful ladies, but her mother had insisted.

“One day you’ll be a great lady, married to a great lord,” her mother had said. “And I will not have it said that Catelyn Tully’s daughter cannot manage a household or hear petitions fairly.”

She'd been better at it than Arya. That had been one consolation. As a young girl, Sansa had been determined to be a perfect lady, and had worked at all the skills that were required. Even those she didn't enjoy.

As Aly left to get their breakfast, the noise of the door shutting woke her husband with a start.

“Good morning,” she said softly. His head must be sore from all that wine. “Aly has just gone to get us breakfast.”

He nodded and slowly raised himself up. “Good morning.”

They stared at each other, then when their eyes met they both looked away. Sansa didn’t know what to say and it seemed her new husband didn’t know either.

They awkwardly remained in silence until Aly returned with their food. The appearance of a third person seemed to jolt Tyrion into action. “I’ll just...go get changed.” He disappeared into the bedchamber as if a direwolf was nipping at his heels.

Sansa sat at the table as Aly unpacked the tray and served herself a glass of juice, waiting for Tyrion to return before she started to eat.

It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually Tyrion emerged from the other room, dressed in fresh clothes and carrying a small wooden box in his hands.

“My Lord,” Sansa greeted him again. She didn't know what else to say.

“It's Tyrion, Sansa,” he gently chided. He placed the box on the table and levered himself into a chair.

She looked away as he started to serve himself. Her etiquette lessons hadn't covered “how to make conversation with your husband on the morning after the wedding you both had been forced to have.”

“Aly, please see if you can find where my trunks have been sent.” Hopefully they weren't still in her old room. Lounging around in her nightclothes had never been her favourite activity.

“They'll be in the lady's chamber,” her husband piped up.

“The lady's chamber?” Sansa was confused. Married couples shared a bedchamber, didn't they?

“Yes, through that door there.” Sansa didn't remember any other bedchambers on this floor of the Tower, but then again, she'd never spent much time in her father's personal quarters when she'd last lived in this Tower. Her and Arya had had rooms further down the Tower. She'd visited her father's office occasionally but they had had their meals in a small solar on another floor.

She'd explored everywhere but the Tower of the Hand with her Septa. Sansa wondered what else this Tower was hiding.

 

* * *

 

As they finished eating, Sansa lingering over a final lemon cake, Tyrion pushed the box towards her.

“I seem to remember it is your Name Day, my Lady,” he smiled. “I hope you like it.”

Sansa opened the box to find a dainty golden torque, classically engraved with lions and wolves leaping around each other. A wolf head and a lion head formed the clasp at the front — the lion resting it’s head over that of the wolf.

“You aren't the first Stark to marry into my family, it seems. Branwyn Stark married an ancestor of mine, many generations ago. Her husband had that made for her.”

The name sounded familiar and the engravings were lovely. “It’s very fine, my Lord.”

“There are many other pieces for you to wear as well. After all, you are Lady Lannister now.” At that, Sansa’s gaze shot to her husband who grimaced. “My father never remarried, Jamie is a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, and technically my sister is a Baratheon. The Lannister jewels are yours by right. We will have to get the rest of them from my sister.”

Sansa could think of a thousand things that would be easier than getting Cersei Lannister to hand over her jewels. Hatching and riding a dragon for one. “My Lord, I don’t want to cause any problems for you with your family.”

He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “You are my family now. You are Lady Lannister,” he repeated. “The jewels are yours. We are the richest house in the Seven Kingdoms and we like to display that fact.”

Sansa wasn’t convinced. She dropped her gaze back to the torque, her fingers following the lines of engraving on the rich gold.

“Our marriage has been the subject of much gossip and laughter.” She snorted softly at her husband’s bald statement. “They may laugh, but you just married into the richest family these Kingdoms have ever seen. I might not be considered a prize, but there are some consolations to marrying into this house. We have money, jewels, pride, and power...and as Lady Lannister, all of those are yours to use as you wish. So, hold your head up high and wear the jewels.”

She found her lips quirking up into a smile. “Hear me roar.”

Tyrion nodded. “Jewels are a much more elegant way to roar, don’t you think?”

The door creaked open, and her husband’s squire, Podrick, shuffled in carrying a note. Tyrion cracked the seal and read it quickly.

“Joffrey wants us to join him and the rest of the court on the Steps of Baelor. Apparently, he wants to give us a wedding gift.”

“What kind of gift?” Sansa had spent enough time around the King to be wary of any ‘gifts’ he might like to give her.

She remembered clearly his threats from last night, when he’d pulled her aside at her wedding feast and threatened to rape her. After Tyrion had passed out last night, she’d made sure the door to their chamber was firmly locked and barred. She’d debated pulling furniture in front of it but had changed her mind in the end. She only hoped the King would find someone new to torture, and soon.

 

* * *

 

The crowd below were restless as the bells in the Great Sept rung out. Tyrion motioned for Bronn to stay near — a restless crowd could turn to a riot far too quickly. The crowd began to jeer as Ned Stark was led through them by the guards.

Tyrion stood beside Sansa, Cersei and his nephew on a raised platform built over the steps to the Sept. His wife was elegantly dressed in a pale blue dress with the gold torque he had given her that morning clasped around her neck. She beamed with joy at seeing her father again.

Ned smiled at her, then glared when his eyes met Tyrion’s. Tyrion winced. His father didn’t like him, his good-father didn’t like him. Hopefully he could smooth things over with Lord Stark after he was pardoned. He hadn’t sought to be married to Sansa, but he meant to make the best of it.

The guards dragged Lord Stark to the front of the platform, and the crowd quieted. The bells stopped, and Lord Stark began to speak.

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King.” He paused, turning to look at Sansa. She smiled even wider and nodded encouragingly at her father.

“I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of Gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son and seize the Throne for myself.”

At that, the crowd started to jeer and yell again. A broken cobblestone came flying out of the crowd and hit Lord Stark on the temple. Sansa flinched as if to go to her father, by Tyrion placed a restraining hand on her wrist. He didn’t want her anywhere near flying cobblestones — he’d never hear the end of it if he got his wife killed the day after they were married.

The Hound pushed Lord Stark back to the front of the platform.

“Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the grace of all the Gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Joffrey beamed although the crowd started to yell again. Sansa looked down at her husband, clearly worried, and Tyrion looked up at her with a small frown on his face. The mood of the crowd was...wrong.

Grand Maester Pycell moved to the front of the platform beside Lord Stark and motioned for silence.

“As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. The Gods are just but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful.” He turned and faced Joffrey.

“What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?”

Joffrey looked delighted as the crowd started to yell out suggestions. He listened raptly for a few moments then raised his hand for silence.

“My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join The Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And the Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.”

Tyrion saw both Cersei and Sansa smile at Joffrey, who nodded at them in return. Maybe they would get through this after all. His good-father might not like him, but at the Wall he would struggle to make Tyrion’s life a difficulty. He certainly didn’t mind visiting the Wall on occasion so his wife could see her father and half-brother. He just needed to remember to bring his own wine next time.

Joffrey turned back to the crowd as he continued to speak. “But they have the soft hearts of women.”

Shit. What was his bastard of a nephew doing?

“So long as I am your King, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”

The crowd roared their approval as Cersei reached out to grab her son’s arm. “Stop this! What are you doing? My son, this is madness,” she hissed, tugging on him.

Lord Stark looked back at his daughter, confusion writ large on his features.

“No, stop! Please someone stop him!” His wife was distraught as a member of the guard held her back. “You promised! You promised to be merciful!”

Tyrion joined Varys in pleading with the King. “Your Grace, don’t do this!” “This is madness, have mercy!”

But the King just smiled at them, watching Ser Ilyn pulling on his hood with glee in his eyes. Ser Ilyn pulled the sword from its sheath, and Tyrion recognised it as Ice, the great Valyrian steel sword of the Starks themselves.

Tyrion fell silent. This was decided long before they’d come to the steps today. There was nothing he could do. Varys seemed to recognise the same, as he quieted as well. They shared a despairing look, then turned back to face the crowd. Behind them, Sansa continued to scream, her voice starting to shatter and break. “Stop him, stop him, please, stop him!”

One swing and it was done. Sansa let out a piercing scream, sagging in the guard’s arms.

As Ser Ilyn raised Ned Stark’s head high, Joffrey turned to his former betrothed. “Do you like my gift?”

Tyrion lunged, but was too late to catch his wife as she collapsed to the ground in a dead faint.

 

* * *

 

She didn’t know how she got back to the room. She didn’t care.

 

* * *

 

Her maid came in, tried to talk to her. She brought food, water. Sansa turned away.

 

* * *

 

Her husband came in and tried to talk to her. She couldn’t make out the words. She didn’t care to.

 

* * *

 

When her maid opened the curtains, she screamed. Screamed until they were closed again. It was the only sound she made.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion put his cup down on the table with a sigh. The handmaiden had just returned from trying to get his wife to eat something but Sansa had again refused. It had been several days and his wife hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since they’d returned to the Tower of the Hand after her father had died.

Since her father had been murdered, more accurately. Murdered by his shit of a nephew.

Tyrion wondered if “not stopping the King from beheading Lord Stark, thereby ensuring the Northern rebellion would continue to rage on, stronger and more fierce than before” was what his father meant by stopping his sister and nephew from doing anything else stupid. He imagined it was. And that his father was going to be more furious with him than usual.

He picked at his food. The capital had been quiet in the past few days, but he didn't expect that to last. Everyday there were more and more ravens flying in from around the Kingdoms. Lord Stark's death had enraged the North, and even more houses flocked to Robb Stark's banner. The Lannister forces were stretched thin, and with Jamie still held by the Stark’s, morale was running low.

Furthermore, there had been signs that they had finally entered autumn. He was off to tour the city's granaries with Littlefinger today, to see what further preparations they would need to do to see King's Landing through the next winter. The Maesters at the Citadel were predicting that when winter came it would be a long, harsh one.

He'd stayed close to his wife over the past few days, having his work brought to their main rooms from his office. Although his wife wasn't speaking, and definitely wasn't speaking to him, he didn't feel right leaving her alone to suffer the pain his idiotic nephew had caused her.

But he couldn't linger any longer. His duties took him away from his Tower today, so he drained his wine and called for Pod to make ready his horse.

 

* * *

 

When they finally came for her, she didn’t hear them approach. It was Joffrey who opened the door, followed by Ser Meryn Trant and the Hound. Aly slipped in after them, twisting her hands in front of her.

The Hound wrenched opened the curtains and light flooded into the room.

Joffrey walked over to the bed and sneered down at her. “You will attend me in court this afternoon,” he said. “See that you bathe and dress accordingly.”

Sansa drew her blanket up to her chin to cover herself. “No,” she whimpered. “Please, let me be.”

“If you won’t rise and dress yourself, my Hound will do it for you,” Joffrey said.

“I beg of you, my prince…”

“I’m king now. Dog, get her out of bed.”

The Hound scooped her around the waist and lifted her off the bed as she struggled feebly. Her blanket fell to the floor, leaving her exposed in only a thin shift.

“Dress,” he snapped, pushing her towards Aly and the wardrobe.

Sansa stumbled and fell to the floor, her legs too weak to sustain her. “I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you’d be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won’t do any treason, I’ll be good, I swear it, I don’t have traitor’s blood, I _don’t_ , I only want to go home!” Remembering her courtesies, she bowed her head. “As it please you,” she finished weakly.

“It does _not_ please me,” Joffrey countered. “This is where your husband lives. You are home.”

At that, Sansa started to weep. “Your Grace, _please_.”

Joffrey sneered down at her. “My mother tells me it is not kingly to raise my hand in anger. Ser Meryn.”

The knight was on her before she could think, yanking her to her feet by her hair and backhanding her across the ear with a gloved hand. Sansa did not remember falling, yet the next thing she knew, she was sprawled back on the ground, her head ringing. Ser Meryn stood over her, blood marring the knuckles of his white silk gloves, while forgotten in the corner, Aly raised her hands in horror to cover her mouth.

“Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?”

Sansa’s ear was numb. She touched it, and her fingertips came away wet and red. “I...as...as you command, your Grace.”

“I shall look for you in Court.” Joffrey turned and left, accompanied by his knight and his Hound.

Aly crept forward and helped Sansa to her feet. Sansa felt like she was separate from her body — like her body was going through motions but her mind wasn't paying attention.

“I will need hot water for my bath, please,” she heard herself murmur, “and perfume, and some powder to hide the bruise.”

She felt right side of her face begin to swell and ache, but she felt it as if it was over a distance.

“Where is Lord Tyrion?”

“He is out with Lord Baelish, my Lady. He did not say when he would be back.”

Sansa nodded, and regretted it as the movement made the pain in her cheek flare that briefly bought her back to herself. Distantly she felt herself get ready for court. She didn't want to give the King any reason to visit her chamber ever again.


	7. The Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varys makes Sansa an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, a chapter today? But it's Wednesday, I hear you cry. There's a new chapter today because it's my birthday and I'll post if I want to, post if I want to, post if I want to...
> 
> Normal Saturday posting will resume this weekend.
> 
> Warnings for disassociation and brief suicidal thoughts on Sansa's behalf. And for Joffrey in general.

The guards held the bard down while Ser Ilyn heated the knife.

“I’m done for the day.” Joffrey stood from the Iron Throne and handed his crown to the Hound. “I’ll leave the rest of the matters to you, mother.”

“Not to the Hand?” Sansa heard Cersei ask.

“No, not the _Acting_ Hand. Someone I can trust.” Mother and son shared a smile before Joffrey made his way through the Throne Room to where Sansa stood in the colonnade, transfixed by the cries of the bard. She didn’t feel like she was completely there, really. Like only a part of her was in the Keep while the rest of her was far away, floating above everything in a soft, warm place.

“You look quite nice,” Joffrey said. His tone was sweet, but it was too hard for Sansa to be suspicious. Much easier to stay in the floaty place. He couldn’t reach her in the floaty place.

“Thank you, your Grace,” mumbled Sansa.

Sansa looked away from the King as the bard’s cries intensified. Was she even awake? Was this all a terrible dream?

“Walk with me,” the King ordered as he moved away. “I want to show you something.”

Sansa hesitated. Even in the floaty place she realised anything Joffrey wanted to show her was probably not going to be nice.

The Hound stopped in front of her and gestured for her to precede him. “Do as you’re bid, child.”

Sansa turned, and followed the King out of the Throne Room and through the Keep, escorted by Ser Meryn and the Hound.

“How are you enjoying married life, my Lady?” The King enquired. “Are you enjoying sharing his bed?”

Sansa remained silent and focused on remaining in her floaty place.

“I can only imagine the depraved things he must make you do...is that why you wouldn't leave your room? Too tired from his affections?”

Even in the floaty place that sounded stupid. “No, your Grace…”

“Not too tired? I imagine he is keen to get a child upon you. I know I would be. As soon as you’d had your blood I’d get a child on you, if I were your husband. Then again, if your husband cannot perform, maybe I should step in his place…”

Joffrey slowed to a stop, and Sansa slowed with him. Looking up, she realised just where Joffrey had brought her. She found herself wrenched out of the floaty place and back to earth through the horror of what she was seeing.

“No! Please, no!”

Heads. Heads on spikes. She recognised the members of her household and tried to back away. Ser Meryn caught her and held her firm, but she turned her head.

“Look, this one's your father. This one here. Look at it and see what happens to traitors.”

She refused to look. “You promised to be merciful.”

“l was. l gave him a clean death. Look at him.”

“Please let me go home. l won't do any treason, l swear —”

The King lost his patience. “Mother says we can’t annul your marriage now, so you'll stay here, and obey. _LOOK AT HIM!_ ”

Slowly, wishing she could retreat back into the floaty place, Sansa raised her eyes and saw her father’s head upon it’s spike.

“How long do I have to look?” She didn’t even blink. She couldn’t blink. She stared at her father’s kind, beloved face, and let the hate for Joffrey rise up in her.

“As long as it pleases me. Do you want to see the rest?”

“If it please your Grace.” Her eyes began to burn but she refused to blink. She had been told to look, so look she would.

“That's your Septa there.” Septa Mordane’s head still wore her headscarf. Sansa preferred to remember the old woman as she’d last seen her — standing tall and strong as the soldiers approached, unbowed and unbroken in the face of her death.

Apparently, staring at the heads wasn’t the reaction Joffrey wanted. He started to rage at Sansa. “l'll tell you what, l'm going to give you a present. After l raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, l'm going to give you his head as well.”

Sansa finally blinked. She dropped her gaze from the heads and looked Joffrey square in the eye. “Or maybe he'll give me yours.”

He blanched at the expression in her eyes. “Ser Meryn!”

Ser Meryn turned her to face him, and struck her face twice — one way, then the other. She felt her lip split open but fought not to react. She tried desperately to block it all out, to escape back to the floaty place, but she just couldn’t go. The pain in her face kept her in the present.

She turned back to the King and finally realised where they were. They were standing on a bridge between two of the castle walls, with a steep drop below them. There was nobody between her and Joffrey. She could push him to his death — and if he took her with him, so be it. She’d get to see her father again. She’d have done her duty to her family by killing her father’s murderer.

Sansa moved towards the King, ready to grab him and shove. When she was a step away, she felt strong hands stop and turn her.

“Here, girl.” The Hound dabbed at the blood on her lip with a rag, keeping one hand on her.

He knew what she wanted to do and had stopped her. She would never forget that — nor forgive him.

“Will you obey now?” The King seemed oblivious to how close he had been to death. Sansa felt her hate for him rise all over again. “Or do you need another lesson?”

The King swept off, followed by Ser Meryn. The Hound paused. “Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants.”

She offered his rag back, but he refused it. “You'll be needing that again.”

 

* * *

 

After that, they left her alone beneath the severed heads. Sansa didn't want to return to her room, not yet. She started to head towards the godswood, but as she walked along the battlements she paused and looked down at the sea.

She hadn't been able to push Joffrey. Perhaps she should jump, like Ashara Dayne had. Since arriving in King’s Landing, Sansa had heard all about the beautiful young woman who had thrown herself from a tower into the sea after her brother had died. Or rather, after her brother had been killed by Sansa’s own father. The rumours got less certain about exactly _why_ Lady Ashara had killed herself, but Sansa had heard enough to know why those stories had never been told at Winterfell.

Did she have the courage to jump? How high above sea the did she have to be to die? Would it be instant? Would she even know when she hit the water?

She could do it. All she’d have to do is jump. But something stopped her. It would be one thing to die taking Joffrey with her, but to kill herself and only herself? It didn’t seem right. She still had family out there, family she desperately wanted to see again. She wanted to stay alive and make it back to them.

She turned away to see Lord Varys watching her. He seemed concerned to see her, and walked briskly in her direction.

“Lady Sansa. My condolences,” the bald man murmured as he reached her.

Sansa blinked. No one else she’d seen today had made even the slightest mention of her loss. She could vaguely remember Lord Tyrion and Alys each telling her they were sorry as she lay crying in the dark, but no one else at court had mentioned her father’s death.

The penalty of dying a traitor, she guessed. Remembering that this was the Master of Whispers, the chief spy for the Crown, she put on a brave face.

“Condolences for my marriage or the loss of my father, my lord?”

Varys studied her. He didn’t seem to be distracted by her attempt at humour. “For your loss, child. Is your husband really so terrible that you feel you need consoling?”

Sansa stared at her feet. In truth, Lord Tyrion had been nothing but kind throughout their short marriage. He hadn’t insisted on sharing her bed and had left her alone to mourn. Their conversations before her father’s death had been brief but cordial, and the gift he’d given her for her Name Day was well chosen — if now forever tainted with what had happened afterwards.

In short, he’d behaved like a perfect gentleman. If only he didn’t come from such an awful family!

“You’re right, Lord Varys. My husband is not terrible at all.”

He smiled, and offered his arm. “It is a lovely day, my lady. Walk with me?”

She took his arm and together they strolled along the castle walls, finding themselves in a lush garden seemingly empty of others. They stopped in front of a fountain with an ingenious collection of waterspouts and carefully carved creatures. She could see the symbols of the seven major houses of the Kingdom — stags, wolves, lions, roses, hawks, suns, and fish — arrayed throughout the leaping water.

“They tell me you can write a fair hand, my Lady,” Lord Varys commented into the silence between them.

Sansa was startled away from her examination of the fountain. Hadn’t he seen her write the letter to her brother after their father was arrested? “I can my Lord. Is that so unusual?”

“It is in the South.” It seemed like she learned something new about life in the South everyday.

“I was wondering if you would help me with some correspondence?” Lord Varys asked. “Reports from my little birds are coming in thick and fast these days and it's becoming a little much for me to handle on my own. I would appreciate the assistance.”

Sansa thought the odds of Lord Varys truly being snowed under by information were about the same as her ever seeing Lady again. But she didn't say that, instead asking, “Why me, my Lord? I'm a traitor's get and my family is in open rebellion against your masters. Why would the Baratheons’ Master of Whispers seek my help?”

Lord Varys sighed and turned so they were both facing the fountain head on. “I serve the Realm, not the Baratheons — nor the Lannisters for that matter. Your father was much the same, though less skilled at the game than I.”

Sansa stiffened at the mention of her father and Varys patted the hand that was still tucked into his elbow. “I care for the Realm and the innocents in the Realm. Children always bear the brunt of war and famine. You, my dear, are very much an innocent — the innocent daughter of a major house. Moreover, you have married into the Lannisters.”

Sansa looked away at the reminder of her marriage. “You cannot afford to stay innocent for much longer. You are key to too many players to stay ignorant of how they are going to attempt to use you. Work with me and I'll help you understand the deadly game you have found yourself in.”

Sansa wavered. “Why should I trust you? Aren't you just using me as well?”

Lord Varys chuckled softly. “Excellent. I suspected you were smarter than you let on.” He started to walk them in a slow circle around the fountain. “I am getting on in years, my lady. I wear them well, but a spymaster’s life doesn't tend to be overly long or end nicely. And obviously, I will never have children.”

Sansa flushed at this reference to Lord Varys’ castrated state. It seemed impolite for him to mention it so plainly, even though she'd heard the whispers about him ever since she'd come to King's Landing.

“I would like to train you as my successor. You are seen as nothing more than a pawn, presently. Pretty, pious Sansa Stark, empty-headed and clueless of the world around her; easily manipulated by the Queen.”

It hurt to hear herself described so, but it matched how she'd noticed others at court treated her, as well as the gifts she had been given at her wedding.

“It amuses me to use their assumptions and their biases against them. I am normally found in my office early each morning going over my correspondence. I presume you remember where it is?”

Sansa had indeed found Lord Varys’ office when exploring the Red Keep with her Septa. She nodded, thinking hard about his offer.

“Good. Not many have managed to find it. I don't think even the King knows where it is.”

With that, he bowed his head and moved away, leaving Sansa to stare at the fountain as thoughts whirled through her head. Should she accept Lord Varys’ offer? Was it a trap? Could she maybe learn something that could help her family?

And if the King didn't know where Lord Varys’ office was, did that mean she'd be safe from him there?

 

* * *

 

The next morning Sansa made her way to Varys’ office. She was glad for an excuse to leave her rooms — Lord Tyrion had looked startled to see her awake and dressed. He'd offered his apologies for the death of her father, and she'd answered the only way she'd felt safe: “My father was a traitor. My mother and brother are traitors too. I am loyal to the King.”

He hadn't seemed to know what to say to that, so he'd buried his attention in the pile of scrolls in front of him while Sansa picked at her food. He wasn't drinking wine that morning, Sansa had noticed. She wondered if that was normal for her husband. Certainly Court gossip held that he was permanently drunk, but was that the truth? Court gossip also held her as pious and stupid, and that was certainly wrong.

Maybe Lord Varys could shine some light on the matter. Her husband seemed friendly with him, for all they were very different men.

Getting to Lord Varys’ Office required going down a rather damp flight of stairs and then through a large vaulted chamber full of dragon skulls. Sansa had been fascinated the first time she'd seen them, gently touching a finger to one of the giant teeth before her Septa guided her away and through the room towards where they'd found Lord Varys’ office. They'd peeked inside to find it a warm, sunny room opening over the Bay and had left after exchanging a few words with the Spymaster.

Sansa stopped at the same giant dragon skull she'd stopped at last time. She wondered which dragon it had belonged to — Arya would have known. Although she hadn't liked the same stories of heroic knights and beautiful ladies that Sansa had, Arya had always appreciated a story with a good amount of bloodshed in it. As dragons tended to cause a lot of bloodshed — or at least large scale slaughter and chaos, which was just as good according to Arya — Arya had pestered Nan and Maester Luwin for all the stories they knew about dragons. And direwolves. And all other kinds of fearsome creatures.

Sansa realised she was absentmindedly stroking the dragon tooth while lost in thought about her missing sister. She gave it a final pat and offered up a prayer for her sister to any God who listened to silly girls standing in the dark.

Lord Varys’ office was just as Sansa remembered it — light, airy, and covered in books and scrolls. There were several maps attached to the wall, with markers and flags marking various points. Lord Varys himself was sitting at his desk, positioned so his back was to the corner and he could look out the window. He stood as she entered the room and swept over to her.

“Lady Sansa, good morning. Thank you for visiting.”

Sansa inclined her head. “Good morning, my Lord. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Come, sit.” Lord Varys gestured her to sit in a chair in front of his desk.

She sat, still looking around. She wanted to get a closer look at the maps on the walls. She'd travelled over half the Kingdom when she had travelled from Winterfell to King's Landing and was fascinated by how the bumps and twists of the Kingsroad translated into marks on paper.

Also, she was fairly sure one of the maps was a detailed description of the area where her family was fighting the Lannisters, and she itched to inspect it. Maybe seeing where her family was would make up for not being there with them — and for being married to their enemies.

Lord Varys seated himself and folded his hands on the desk. “So, my Lady. You are interested in my offer?”

Sansa knew this was a test. Should she try and be coy? Play it naive? Or admit that she felt out of her depth here in King's Landing. She was alone and friendless. Life here confused her. Just look at how what she’d thought was a kind deed had caused her to be married to Lord Tyrion! Perhaps by working with Varys she could make sense of the world around her. Perhaps she could even come up with a way to leave this place and go _home_.

“I am, my Lord. I'm... confused. I don't understand this place. The North is more straightforward.”

“King's Landing is a nest of vipers, my dear. Your father discovered that and lost his head in the process. Hopefully we can avoid you meeting the same fate.”

This time Sansa didn't flinch at the mention of her father's death. She was becoming numb to mentions of him but had taken care not to look up at the castle walls since Joffrey had dragged her out there.

“Thank you, my Lord. I hope that as well.”

Lord Varys smiled at her, and relaxed his posture. He poured two cups of fruit juice from a jug on his desk, and allowed her to pick which one she wanted.

He saluted her with his glass. “To my new apprentice, then. May they never see you coming.”


	8. The Wedding Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa begins her lessons with Varys. First lesson: just what was she given as gifts at her wedding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are officially over halfway! Thanks for sticking with this guys, and I can tell you that I am working hard on the sequel.
> 
> Happy Birthday to Tabby, who commented last time that their birthday was this weekend.
> 
> Y'all. Pod. Please give me your reactions. All of them. They give me life.

The juice was sweet, almost cloying. It would have been hard to swallow had it not been chilled.

“Do you know what fruit it is, my Lady?”

Sansa thought for a bit. “No, my Lord. It is unfamiliar to me.”

Lord Varys smiled. “It is pomegranate juice, sweetened with honey. Pomegranates are grown in hot climates — for example, Dorne. Or Pentos.”

Sansa nodded, and took another sip. The juice coated her throat and she coughed slightly.

“What do you think it means that I am serving it to you,” asked Lord Varys. “What does it tell you about me?”

Sansa was worried. She had no idea. She’d never thought that juice, of all things, could be a source of information to a spymaster. She was just a silly little girl who didn’t know anything about the world! But she didn’t want to give up at the first challenge, so she made her best guesses.

“Well, my Lord...it suggests you have money. That you can pay to have this brought to you. It suggests you either have links to these places, or have travelled there, to know of the existence of the juice in the first place. Given you were not born in Dorne, maybe this means you came from Essos and developed a liking for the juice there?”

Lord Varys smiled at her. “Well done, my Lady. Some logical ideas. So far you have learnt nothing that is not common knowledge — I am wealthy and I was born in Essos — but you have made a good start.”

Sansa smiled back in relief. Perhaps she wasn’t just a silly little girl after all. Suddenly, she wondered if she could get an answer to her earlier questions regarding Lord Tyrion’s choice of juice, rather than wine, over breakfast.

“I also wonder if it suggests you avoid drunkenness, my Lord. I was given to understand that wine is a more common drink here in King’s Landing, even during the morning hours.”

“Yes and no, my Lady. It is true that I try and avoid intoxication — it is dangerous for a spy to have less than perfect control over his mind, and even more dangerous for a spymaster. We know too much, and often have to react quickly to new information to let ourselves be compromised by alcohol. However, here in King’s Landing there is no firm favourite drink with the morning meal. Some take wine, some take watered wine, some beer, some juice. There are some hot drinks made from various beans grown in Dorne and in Essos that are gaining in popularity too, particularly among the young gentry. And sometimes, people’s preferences change from day to day.”

So Lord Tyrion’s choice of juice might not mean anything then. She would have to keep an eye on him — see what he chose on a day to day basis. Maybe it would help her understand this strange man she had been married to.

Lord Varys must have sensed her thoughts turning towards Lord Tyrion, as he asked “Tell me, my Lady, what did you think of your wedding gifts?”

“My wedding gifts? I haven’t given them much thought, especially given what happened after…” she trailed off, then shook herself. Her time for mourning was over. The King had seen to that. “I did sense a theme to them, though. Fabrics and jewellery for me; books and wine for Lord Tyrion. I got the occasional book as well.”

Lord Varys nodded. “Be careful of some of those books. I fear not all were given to you in good faith.”

Sansa tried to remember what books she had been given that would necessitate such a warning, but came up blank. She would have to have another look at them.

“And what of the Queen Regent’s gift? It was very generous of her to offer you three new handmaidens.”

But of the three, she had only accepted one. There was something about the two other handmaidens that had caused Lord Tyrion to act most strangely, and some instinct had steered her away from accepting them.

“It was very kind of her, my Lord.”

“Our Queen Regent is not often kind. No gift she offers comes without strings attached. I wonder what the strings were in this case? How much can you trust your new handmaiden?”

 

* * *

 

Sansa was still thinking about Lord Varys’ words when she returned to the Tower of the Hand. Aly had set out a simple lunch of bread, cold meat, and fruits for her mistress and Lord Tyrion, though the Hand was nowhere to be seen. Aly was tidying up Sansa’s bedchamber while her mistress ate lunch at a small table, looking out over the gardens below.

How could she approach her handmaiden and get her to explain how she came to be in Sansa’s service? How could she ask her about the other girls who had been offered up by the Queen? Sansa knew that as Aly’s mistress, she could theoretically order the older girl to tell her, but that didn’t seem right. She wanted to see what she could learn by more subtle means.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. “Aly, do you have any idea what has happened to the gifts Lord Tyrion and I were given at our wedding?”

Aly turned from where she was arranging things on Sansa’s dressing table. “Yes, my Lady. Lord Tyrion arranged for them to be put in a small chamber near here, but hasn’t done anything else with them.”

“Then it is time I do something with them,” Sansa said as she finished eating and stood. At the very least, she should look through them and write the appropriate thank you notes. Her mother had always been very firm on the role of thank you notes in her life, and she felt that writing them would honour her mother’s lessons.

But then she paused as she crossed the room. Lord Varys said it was unusual for women in the South to be able to read and write. Though the Queen had assumed she could when she ordered Sansa to write to her family. Was it better to pretend she couldn’t read and write here in King’s Landing? Was this a skill she should keep to herself, like a weapon?

A weapon against whom, she wondered to herself. The Queen already knew she could read and write. Sansa assumed this meant the Hand also knew, as did the King. They weren’t likely to leave correspondence lying around for her to read, and she had no access to the Rookery to send any ravens of her own. She’d tried, weeks ago, when her father had first been arrested. Though that prohibition had been lifted now she was Lady Lannister? She should try again, perhaps after asking Lord Tyrion. Thank you notes would be a good test to see if she was allowed to send ravens of her own.

Sansa came to a decision. She would honour her mother and write the thank you letters. It gave her time to spend with her new handmaiden, and perhaps she could work out which books Lord Varys had been talking about.

Aly showed Sansa to the room where the gifts had been piled after the wedding.

“Well.” Sansa stood in the doorway looking over the mess. She wasn’t sure what else to say, so she said it again. “Well.”

The small room was packed with the jumble of books, trinkets and fabrics Lord and Lady Lannister had been given at their wedding. It was more of a large closet, really – there was no window to let light in, and there were no torches in the sconces on the walls. From what Sansa could see, things had been piled into the already dusty room with no thought or care. She was fairly sure that even in the poor light from the hallway she could see a cask of wine dripping onto some of the fine fabrics she had been given.

 _How would Mother deal with this?_   Sansa wondered. _She’d get stuck in; she’d get it organised._

“Well,” she repeated for the third time. “It’s...dustier than I thought it would be.”

Sansa looked down at the pretty dress she had chosen that day. She had wanted to make sure she looked her best to meet with Lord Varys, but this dress was fine silk and careful embroidery. She would have to change.

“Any idea where my husband’s squire is?”

 

* * *

 

Soon, Sansa and Aly were back at the door of the room. Both were wearing old, faded dresses and scarves over their long red hair. Aly carried parchment, a quill, and ink, carefully balanced on a lap desk; while Podrick carried two torches to help light the room. The squire had been found cleaning Tyrion’s boots out in a courtyard, and had followed the two red-headed women back inside the Tower of the Hand without objection.

With torches in place, Sansa could get a better picture of the task ahead of them. “We need a system. I won’t be able to write thank you notes as we go, and we will need a place to put the things we are sorting until we know where they will be properly stored. There may be some things in here we may not want to keep – wine that my lord husband does not like, fabrics that I don’t like, books we already have. Is there another room nearby we could use?”

Aly put her pile of things down by the door and bobbed a quick curtsey. “There are a few down this corridor, m’lady. Former bedrooms, by the look of things.”

Of course. This was in the same corridor her former bedroom was in from when her Father was Hand. Sansa had briefly looked in on her old room on the way to the Sept of Baelor the morning after her wedding. It had been empty of all her personal things, and she hadn’t given it another thought given all that came later that day.

“Well. Let’s use those. As we move each thing, I’ll try and remember who gave it to me, and stick a bit of parchment on it so I know who to write the letters to later. Any I can’t remember, hopefully my Lord husband can.” Sansa clapped her hands. “Let’s begin.”

Soon, the three teenagers were hard at work, carefully extracting gifts from the pile and moving them into Sansa’s old bedroom. It was an interesting test of her memory, trying to remember who gave her and Lord Tyrion each thing. She was able to recall who gave her each fabric they pulled from the pile, and the different bits of jewellery. She was more unsure of the wines given to her husband – they all looked the same to her.

Tilting her head, Sansa read the label on one of the casks. “Arbor Gold, 297 AC. Who on earth gave Lord Tyrion this?”

“Lord Paxter Redwyne, m’Lady.”

Surprised, Sansa and Aly both turned to face Podrick. Those were the first words the young squire had said to them today — and possibly ever. The boy was painfully shy.

“Are you sure, Podrick?”

“Yes, m’Lady. Apparently it is a very fine vintage. Lord Tyrion was most pleased.”

“Well remembered, Podrick. Would you like to do the honour of writing the label for it then? My Lord husband may want to write that note himself, if he has the time.”

Podrick shook his head. “I can’t write, m’Lady.”

 _Huh,_ Sansa thought. Podrick was a squire, which meant his family was noble. Surely all noble boys were taught to read and write. “Can you read?”

“No m’Lady.”

“Can you, Aly?”

“No m’Lady.”

“This will not do. You will be much more useful to Lord Tyrion if you can read enough to fetch him the correct book or the correct wine, Podrick. And I would like you to learn as well, Aly. It could be useful for you as well. We will start lessons on the morrow, after lunch.”

As she was saying this, Sansa carefully wrote ‘Lord Paxter Redwyne’ on a bit of parchment and handed it to Aly to put with the wine in the other room. The handmaid returned to see Sansa and Pod carefully flicking through a book with the most beautiful pictures of dragons in it.

“How did you come to be in Lord Tyrion’s service, Podrick?” asked Sansa conversationally. _If I ask both of them at the same time, perhaps it will look more like natural curiosity rather than an attempted interrogation_. “He’s not a knight, it seems strange for him to have a squire.”

Podrick blushed at being questioned directly, but answered anyway. “I was squire for Ser Lorimer, in the Lannister army. He stole a ham. We were both blamed for it, and he was hung. Lord Tywin spared me because of my name and sent me to his son.”

It still seemed strange to Sansa that a lord who was not a knight would need a squire, but from what she had gathered living at court, Lord Tywin was not to be questioned.

“And you, Aly? How did you come to be one of the handmaidens offered to me by the Queen? Didn’t she say you were from Sisterton?”

“Yes, my Lady. My mother was a cook for Lord Borrell. Since I have the ability to burn water, I entered training as a maid. She was called back to the Seven by a summer fever several moons ago. Since there was nothing left for me in Sisterton, I made my way to King’s Landing to see if I could get a job here — I heard the wages here were higher. I’d been here for a month working as a general maid when I was summoned by the housekeeper. Queen Cersei was apparently looking for two comely maids — a blonde and a redhead. I was judged to be comely and redheaded enough, so here I am my Lady” she finished with a grin.

Sansa liked Aly. She seemed to be straightforward and kind, if a bit chatty, and her story seemed simple enough to Sansa, though she noted that her handmaiden hadn’t mentioned a father. Perhaps she didn’t know who he was.

She had no idea why the Queen wanted maids with those particular hair colours, however. She decided to ask Aly — maybe the maid would have some idea.

“I’m not sure, my Lady,” answered Aly. “The brown haired girl, Shae, was already with the Queen when we were brought into the room. I was the only redhead in the room, but there were a number of blonde handmaidens. The Queen looked them all over, picked one of them, and told her her name was ‘Tysha’ now. I was dismissed and the other two stayed behind with the Queen. I heard her say something about Lord Tyrion as I left, but I was being led out of the room too quickly to hear anything else.”

By this stage, Sansa had stopped trying to appear like she was looking through the book and was just staring at Aly in amazement. What an usual turn of events.

“It’s just as well you picked me and not them though my Lady,” Aly continued. “I’ve at least had some training for being a handmaiden, even if I’m still learning court hair styles. ‘Tysha’ had been working in the stables before she was summoned to the Queen, so Seven knows how useful she would have been, and Shae acted like she had no experience of being a maid at all. Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was a camp follower from the Lannister army.”

At that, Sansa looked questionably at Podrick, who shook his head. “I didn’t recognise her, m’Lady.”

The mystery of why the Queen wanted to give her three handmaidens had just gotten more confusing.The fact that ‘Tysha’ was a false name made Sansa wonder if there had been someone in Lord Tyrion’s past with that name, as the name certainly meant nothing to her. Perhaps this Shae had been someone Lord Tyrion had known when he was with his father’s army?

But why insist on a redheaded maid as well? Did she think Sansa would be more willing to trust a fellow redhead? Was Aly telling the truth about her background? Was she a spy for the Queen? Or did the Queen just like the picture of Sansa having a blonde, a redheaded, and a brunette handmaiden?

She continued to puzzle over these questions for the rest of the afternoon as the three teenagers continued to sort through the pile of gifts and share their stories of travelling to King’s Landing — though for every two or three stories Aly and Sansa shared, Podrick would only venture the occasional comment. One of the casks of wine had indeed leaked onto some fabrics that Sansa had been given, but she thought she could use dye to hide the stain and still make use of the fabric. There was the odd fabric that did not work with her colouring at all, but she could perhaps make something for Lord Tyrion with them.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion climbed his way to the residential part of the Tower of the Hand on weary legs, cursing the fact that these stairs had clearly been made for someone with much longer legs.

It had been a long day sitting on the Small Council trying to get his sister and Littlefinger to reach an agreement on how much grain the Crown should be buying from the Reach as stores for winter. Cersei kept arguing that it was summer now, so why waste money building up supplies that were likely to spoil before winter came? Meanwhile Littlefinger seemed to delight in making the most frustrating arguments and comments just to be annoying, while at one point Grand Maester Pycelle had fallen asleep and started snoring in a sunbeam. Lord Varys had quietly kept working through his correspondence throughout the entire pointless argument, and Tyrion vowed to imitate the spymaster in future meetings.

But for now, he wanted a large glass of wine, or five, a hot meal, and a book. He was glad he didn’t have a household staff that would necessitate having meals in the large hall at the bottom of the Tower. He didn’t have the energy tonight to be Lord of the Hall. He just wanted peace and quiet.

The usual peace and quiet of the Tower of the Hand was broken by peals of youthful laughter ringing out as Tyrion passed the doorway to the floor below his. Momentarily distracted from his quest for wine, food, and a book, Tyrion decided to see what was causing such merriment in a Tower that was usually as quiet as a tomb.

He followed the torchlight and found his wife, her handmaiden, and his squire in a room full of the gifts they had been given for their wedding. Each gift had been carefully laid out, each with a piece of paper on it seeming to denote who had given the gift. Pod had a bolt of fine silk draped over his head like he was a Septa, Sansa was wearing a necklace braided into her hair, and her handmaiden was balancing a book on her head as she paced around the room.

His wife was trying to draw an arrow on the bow his hillmen had given her, with the help of his squire. However, it was clear that Pod had no idea what he was doing, and Sansa kept dropping the arrow, causing all three of them to burst into laughter all over again.

Tyrion leaned in the open doorway. His heart gave a funny tug, seeing his wife in a dusty dress with a smudge of dirt on her cheek, smiling and laughing with people her age. Her grief was understandable, and Tyrion was profoundly sorry for the pain his nephew had caused her, but he was glad to see she still remembered how to smile and laugh. And it was nice to see Pod interacting with other young people, instead of standing around awkwardly in corners with his shoulders raised up as if he expected a blow any minute.

“I’m not sure young Pod is the best one to advise you on how to shoot that, Lady Sansa. To my knowledge, he’s had no training in any type of weapon at all.”

Apparently none of the young people had noticed his approach. Pod and Sansa spun around to face him, while the handmaiden quickly grabbed the book off her head and stood still. Seeing Tyrion at the door, Pod quickly moved away from Sansa, pulling the fabric off his head.

“My Lord!” Sansa blushed and lowered the bow. The arrow she had just dropped lay at her feet as she stared at him, uncertainty warring across her face.

His arrival seemed to have sucked all the laughter out of the room. Tyrion was sad to hear it stop — his day had been boring and full of arguments. The happy laughter had been a nice change.

“I see you have sorted out the gifts we were given,” he said to the room in general.

“Yes, my Lord. I plan to write thank you notes over the next few days, if that is agreeable to you?”

He had to hand it to Catelyn Stark. As foolish as she was to kidnap him, she had raised a daughter with impeccable manners.

“It is most agreeable. Let me know if there are any you think would be best to come from my hand rather than yours.”

Sansa ducked her head at his comment, and seemed to notice the arrow at her feet for the first time in several minutes. She stooped to grab it, a blush spreading over her cheeks.

“I would recommend not sending a note to Chella, daughter of Cheyk, however. The hillmen have little knowledge of reading and writing.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He gently smiled, trying to coax the feeling of the room back into the laughter he had walked in on. “I would suggest that you instead thank her in person, and ask for lessons on how to use the bow instead.”

At that, Sansa’s head flew up. “My Lord?”

“It was a gift given in good faith, and I believe it is not that unusual for Northern women to know how to hunt, correct?”

His young wife nodded. “It’s not, my Lord. My sister is an excellent shot, and my aunt was said to be as well.” She looked sad at the mention of her family.

“I suggest you take Pod with you when you visit the hillmen, just in case,” Tyrion hurried to say. The cheerful mood in the room was well and truly broken. “I do not think anything will happen to you, but it would make an old man feel better. And he does need some weapons training if he is ever to become a knight.”

Sansa looked up from where she had been inspecting the ground and smiled awkwardly. By the Seven, he hadn’t been so uncomfortable talking with a woman since his voice had stopped cracking and his spots had disappeared.

Tyrion decided to give the conversation up as a lost cause. “Shall we have dinner, my Lady?”

At that, the handmaiden bobbed a brief curtsey and left the room at a trot, presumably to fetch their evening meal and set it up in the solar for them. Pod tripped over his feet as he scrambled over to the corner where he had dumped his cloak earlier in the afternoon before rushing out the door after the handmaiden.

 

* * *

 

Preoccupied with avoiding each other’s gaze, neither his master nor his wife noticed that Podrick was was smuggling a book out of the room under his cloak. He couldn’t read yet, that was true, but this book (given to his master by a laughing Bronn the afternoon of the wedding) had some very informative pictures.

Very informative. It was probably good he’d realised what the pictures were of while Sansa and Aly had been out of the room. It had taken him time to get himself back under control and he knew he had blushed madly.

He hoped his master wouldn’t notice the book was missing. From what he had gathered from overhearing gossip in the army and here at Court, Lord Tyrion was apparently versed in much of what the book was about and probably didn’t need the help, whereas Podrick had so far not had the chance to gain any experience in this area.

Carefully, he stashed the book under his pallet before rushing to help Aly fetch Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa’s dinner. He had some studying to do.


	9. The Throne Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns to shoot, and Tyrion learns some hard truths about his nephew’s relationship with his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for S02E04, ‘Garden of Bones’. It’s that scene — the one where Sansa is beaten in the Throne Room. If you’d prefer not to read this, after Sansa is summoned by King Joffrey skip ahead to “My lady, you may survive us yet.”
> 
> The legend of Gerde, daughter of Hedwig, was inspired by both how Māui slowed the sun and Macha, an Irish goddess who ran a race (and won) while heavily pregnant. However, as I made it up, it's terribleness is my own damn fault.

Sansa found life settling into a regular pattern soon after that. She continued to sleep alone in the lady’s chambers, and upon waking, would head to the Hillmen’s camp for her archery lessons. She was slowly getting better — she could hit the target every time now, though she was far from hitting the middle of the target. Podrick wasn’t much better, and they had a very small wager on who would hit the bullseye first.

Sansa found it easiest to focus on the target with her left eye, while Pod found it easier with his right. So they mirrored each other when they shot — Sansa’s right hand on the riser, her left hand pulling the string back, while Pod was the opposite. For the first few weeks, shooting an arrow _hurt_. Sansa’a back and shoulders ached, and her fingers got blisters, then calluses. But she wouldn’t let her pain deter her. She was determined to learn. Sansa felt defenceless in King’s Landing. Knowing how to use a weapon — even a long-range weapon like a bow — made her feel safer.

One day, the string slipped out of Sansa’s fingers, sending the arrow flying wildly across the ground. As she shook her left hand out, she saw that the blisters had torn and her fingertips were bloody. She looked around to see if there are any bandages she could use, but Chella, daughter of Cheyk, stopped her with a kind hand on her arm.

“Ah, little one. So determined. You are like Gerde, daughter of Hedwig, who challenged the sun! But you should learn your limits. When your hand is bleeding, that is your limit.”

Chella, daughter of Cheyk, was a surprisingly patient teacher. She had a wicked sense of humour and made several comments about Tyrion that Sansa guessed were meant to impugn his manhood. But Sansa didn’t let them get to her, didn’t react, and in time Chella, daughter of Cheyk, scaled down her comments from taunts to jibes to jokes.

“Gerde, daughter of Hedwig? Why did she challenge the sun?” asked Sansa as Pod helped her sit down and fetched water for her fingers.

“You lowlanders do not tell this story?” harrumphed Chella, daughter of Cheyk. “It is a famous story. It explains why the day is long.”

Chella, daughter of Cheyk, launched into the story as Pod washed Sansa’s hand and wound a bandage around it. It was an odd story — Gerde, daughter of Hedwig, was heavily pregnant and sick of the sun racing across the sky and making the days either too short or too long. Pregnant women are often grumpy, noted Chella, daughter of Cheyk, and should not be argued with (the Hillmen who had gathered to listen to the story all nodded frantically at this statement). So Gerde, daughter of Hedwig, challenged the sun to an arm wrestling contest. If she won, the sun would move slowly across the sky giving the people long days. If she lost, the sun could continue to race across the sky at will.

Gerde, daughter of Hedwig was cunning, and used water and clay to reduce the heat of the sun during their competition. She refused to touch the sun until most of it’s fire was out — which meant most of it’s power was weak. Thus, Gerde, daughter of Hedwig, was able to use all of her strength and all of her frustration, and won the contest.

“She then went into labour, and gave birth to twins — one of which she sacrificed to the sun, to show there were no hard feelings,” finished Chella, daughter of Cheyk.

Sansa was fascinated. She had never heard any stories like this. After that, whenever they took a break from learning to shoot, Sansa would ask Chella, daughter of Cheyk, to tell her more stories. She’d heard very little about the Hillmen back in Winterfell — she was sure they had been covered in her lessons but she had no idea of their history or legends. Soon, she started to bring a pen and paper with her to her lessons, so that during a break or afterwards she could write down the legends Chella, daughter of Cheyk, told her.

For her part, Chella, daughter of Cheyk, was fascinated at the marks Sansa made on the paper. The Hillmen were all illiterate, Sansa discovered. She offered to teach them to read and write as well but they demurred. So Sansa kept learning to shoot, and in between rounds, continued to copy out the stories and legends they told her. She was half considering trying to turn the stories into a book. Perhaps Tyrion would find it interesting as a Name Day present — they were, after all, _his_ Hillmen.

Sansa knew she wouldn't be much use on a hunt — hitting a stationary target is much easier than a moving one, especially if you are moving yourself — but once the aches in her muscles started to go away she noticed her arms and stomach becoming firmer through the exercise. No one had said anything to her about her new hobby, which she took to mean it was either unremarkable or no one cared what she did anymore now she was married to the Hand — or they weren't willing to comment. Lord Varys had of course mentioned it, but she reasoned that of course the spymaster would know everything that happened in the Red Keep. He hadn't told her to stop, so she didn't.

After her lessons, Sansa would return to the Tower of the Hand where she normally broke her fast in silence. Lord Tyrion was not a morning person, and he was often still asleep when she finished breaking her fast. Or she assumed he was still asleep. The door to his chamber remained shut, and she wasn't going to disturb him. On the mornings he did join her, Sansa tried to keep track of whether he drank wine or juice, but so far she hadn't been able to build a complete picture.

Following her breakfast, Sansa would dress properly (she'd quickly learnt to wear old dresses to her archery lessons, and given the hours most of the Court kept, there was no one to observe her unfashionable state that early in the morning) and to for a walk through the castle grounds, accompanied by Aly. Sansa was gradually updating her wardrobe with dresses made from her wedding presents. Red and gold were starting to feature more in her outfits, as was the odd lion motif. She felt that since she was married to a Lannister, she may as well look the part.

No matter the route taken, Sansa would always end up at Varys’ office, at which point Aly would return to her other duties. Sansa's lessons with him continued apace — she learnt more about the tangled relationship of alliances and betrayals within the great and not-so-great houses of Westeros, and the basics of the political situations in Essos. She helped him break ciphers and codes on messages he’d intercepted from others — Sansa turned out to be very good at breaking ciphers, even if she was finding it harder to interpret people’s behaviour at Court.

Lord Varys was also teaching her about some of the classics of spycraft — inks that only showed up when heat was applied, basic poisons that could be absorbed through the skin. She’d spent several fun mornings playing memory games with him, trying to spot what he’d moved in his office and reciting increasingly long lists of names and people. They had once played a game of “I’m going to Dorne and in my trunk I have packed…” that lasted for a sennight before one of them made a mistake. He’d looked at her askance when one of the things she had said she had packed was a lion cub, but hadn’t said anything. It was only later that Sansa realised she’d just implicated she was pregnant — even though she hadn’t flowered yet!

Varys had even taught her some more hands-on spycraft, such as lockpicking and pickpocketing. That had been quite a challenge — he’d attached small bells to piles of cloth and had her try and “steal” a coin from them without ringing the bells. After she’d mastered that, he’d moved to attaching bells to his pockets and challenging her to pick them. Since this happened when he was sitting behind his desk and she had limited reasons to be on the same side as him, Sansa hadn’t managed to pick the spymaster’s pockets just yet. But she was determined to get there one day.

In the afternoon, Sansa could normally be found sewing in a sunny room in the Tower of the Hand. She'd made approaches to a number of the young women from the Westerlands who were also living in the Red Keep — young women like Alysanne Lefford and Genna Hamell — who would sometimes join her in her sewing. Genna in particular knew some lovely flower embroidery patterns that Sansa was envious of.

Sansa would carefully question them about life in the Westerlands, and was starting to learn about the differences between living in the West and the North for young women. Lord Varys’ books and information were good, but tended to be written by men, for men. Sansa found the young Westerladies to be entertaining sources of knowledge of her eventual new home, and also managed to learn a few things about how the war was progressing. It seemed that the Lannister forces were suffering heavy losses, and that they may lose the war. She was very, very careful to hide her thoughts on this matter, but hoped this was true. She couldn’t wait to be reunited with her family.

Dinner was usually a quiet meal with Lord Tyrion. They had begun to share the events of their days with each other, though Sansa avoided any references to her time spent with Varys, instead sharing boring details of walking and sewing. After dinner, Sansa and her husband could generally be found spending time in their solar; Lord Tyrion reading and Sansa either reading or sewing as the mood took her. Their evenings were generally quiet — sometimes, Lord Tyrion attempted to teach Podrick how to play cyvasse. These attempts were amusing, though not necessarily successful.

Sometimes, Lord Tyrion needed to have dinner with someone on Hand-related business and on nights when that happened, Sansa ate with the Queen and her younger children. Myrcella and Tommen were lovely children, the spitting image of their mother. Sansa found it hard to see their father in them, but then she hadn’t known King Robert that well. Perhaps their kindly nature came from his side of the family.

Sansa had managed to dodge the King and his guardsmen for nearly a month following her marriage when one day a runner came for her while she was breaking her fast. She was summoned to the Throne Room — King Joffrey demanded her presence.

 

* * *

 

“You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treasons.”

All Sansa could see was the crossbow pointed straight at her. Her brain felt like it was moving lightning fast. How would she survive this? What could she do to walk out of this room alive? _Beg._

“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please!”

She hadn’t yet learned anything worth sending a raven to her brother for. All of the notes she’d sent since regaining access to the Rookery were thank you notes; no more, no less. Every one completely innocuous, even if some were written in a rather shaky hand (Sansa still thought teaching Aly and Podrick how to write well enough to copy out the more basic thank you notes was a smart idea).

The King interrupted her begging. “Ser Lancel, tell her of this outrage.”

Ser Lancel began to declaim in a loud, ringing voice. “Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves. Thousands of good men were butchered. After the slaughter, the Northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain!”

The crowd in the Throne Room started to mutter to each other in horror at Ser Lancel’s report, but Sansa couldn’t believe her ears. An army of wolves? Feasting on the flesh of the slain? Ser Lancel had clearly been listening to too many old Septa’s stories. But if the King believed him…

“Killing you would send your brother a message,” the King murmured as he sighted down the crossbow at her.

This was it. She was done for. If the King wanted to use Ser Lancel’s made up story as a pretence for her death, he would. After all, they’d used Ser Lancel’s made up interpretation of what was happening in that bedroom to force her into marriage. Why wouldn’t the King believe his young cousin?

“But my mother insists on keeping you alive.” He put down the crossbow and gestured to Sansa. “Stand.”

As she did so, he moved back and sat on the Iron Throne.

“So, we’ll have to send your brother a message some other way. Meryn!”

The Kingsguard moved towards her, his footsteps heavy on the stone of the Throne Room. Just as he reached her, the King interrupted him. “Leave her face! My uncle likes them pretty I’m told.”

Face? Pretty? What was about to happen?

Ser Meryn reached her and put his left hand on her shoulder. She was so busy looking at the King that she failed to see the knight’s right hand draw back — she just felt it when it slammed into her stomach, causing her to double over. When she doubled over from the pain of the mailed fist hitting her, Ser Meryn draw his sword and slapped her over the back of her legs with it. Sansa fell to the floor, gasping in shock.

“Meryn, my lady’s overdressed,” the King crooned. Sansa raised herself onto her knees and turned so she was facing the Throne again. She could see that he Joffrey had risen and was approaching the edge of the dias. “Unburden her.”

With three short strides, Ser Meryn was at her back. She felt him grab the back of her dress and slice through it with a knife. Her dress ripped and fell, and she grabbed desperately to stop it falling down at the front and baring her corset to the court.

Through her terrified sobs, Sansa could hear the King start to yell. “If we want Robb Stark to hear us, we’re going to have to SPEAK LOUDER!”

Ser Meryn re-drew his sword and approached her.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” roared a new voice. Sansa had never been so pleased to hear Lord Tyrion’s voice in her entire life. Ser Meryn froze, and Sansa twisted around to find her Lord husband stalking through the Throne Room, trailed by his sellsword.

Sansa could hear Ser Meryn sheathe his sword as Lord Tyrion approached. “What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?”

“The kind who serves his King, Imp,” snarled Ser Meryn, leaning in as if he was about to attack Lord Tyrion.

“Careful now, we don’t want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak,” warned the sellsword. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him circling around towards the Hound, but Sansa kept her attention focused on Lord Tyrion and Ser Meryn. They were the bigger threat right now. She tried desperately to get her sobs under control.

“Somebody get my wife something to cover herself with!” snapped Lord Tyrion as he moved towards the King. “She’s your aunt! Have you no regard for her honour? Or mine?”

The Hound moved towards her, unbuckling his white cloak as he went. He draped it around her, the large cloak drowning her in it's thick, bitter-smelling fabric. Sansa thanked him but stayed kneeling, her ears pricked to hear the King’s petulant response.

“I’m punishing her!”

“For what crimes? She is not fighting in her brother’s battles! She didn’t even send a raven to him when given access to the Rookery — she only sent thank you notes to people who had given gifts because you married her to me, you half-wit!”

He’d checked the notes. Of course he had. Sansa was grateful she hadn’t tried to send anything out after all.

“You can’t talk to me like that!” the King whined. “The King can do as he likes!” With that, King Joffrey stalked back to his Throne.

“The Mad King did as he liked. Has your Uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?” Lord Tyrion finished softly, but still loud enough that those standing nearby could hear what was said. “No one threatens his Grace in the presence of a Kingsguard!” roared Ser Meryn, hand on his sword as he loomed over Lord Tyrion. Out of the corner of her eye Sansa could see Lord Tyrion’s sellsword moving forward slowly, his hand on his sword.

“I’m not threatening the King, ser,” Lord Tyrion replied in a strained voice. “I’m educating my nephew.”

With that, Lord Tyrion turned his head slightly to face his sellsword while never dropping his eyes from Ser Meryn. “Bronn, the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him.”

Since he had moved into her line of sight, Sansa could see the smirk on the sellsword’s — _Bronn’s_ — face at that order.

“That was a threat,” Lord Tyrion continued. “See the difference?” With that, Lord Tyrion finished staring down Ser Meryn and turned to walk over to Sansa. He approached her warily, one hand extended, as if approaching a wounded wild animal. Sansa had a sudden memory of kneeling in front of Lord Tyrion in the Great Sept as he carefully covered her with his cloak while the nobility of Kings’ Landing tittered at them. Once again, she was on her knees in front of the Court, clutching a borrowed cloth over her shoulders, with only this man standing beside her to try and shield her from the world.

She took his hand, and as she stood, her husband bowed to her ever so slightly.

She thought she should refer to him as her husband now. He’d deserved it, saving her from that beating.

Sansa stood as straight as she could, her friend’s shawl preserving her modesty and her stomach and leg muscles screaming from the pain of the beating they had received. The King surged to his feet, but Sansa ignored him. He wouldn’t try anything else with his uncle in the room, it seemed.

Together, Sansa and her husband turned and walked out of the Throne Room. Several of the young Westerladies whom Sansa had befriended fell into step behind them. Sansa took note of which ones — Alysanne Lefford, Genna Hamell, Cersei Lannett, Cerelle Broom — for later. They might be true friends and allies — or they might be false friends, trying to lure her into a sense of complacency. Even now, she had to be cautious. Especially now, when she was in pain and vulnerable.

“I apologise for my nephew’s behaviour. Tell me the truth, has this happened before?”

“I am loyal to King Joffrey, and my family are traitors.” At that, her husband came to a stop.

Muscles howling in agony, Sansa walked out the doors of the Throne Room, her back ramrod straight. She wasn’t going to stay in that room a second longer than she had to, but she wasn’t going to show how much she hurt.

From behind her, she heard her husband’s voice.

“My Lady, you may survive us yet.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion stared after his wife. Even with a borrowed shawl the only thing preserving her modesty, she stalked out of the Throne Room with her head held high. She had gone from cowering in fear and pain to walking out of the room as if she was a queen in her own right.

How had he missed it? He’d been so blinded by his work as Hand — power plays with his sister, sending Janos Slynt to the Wall, arranging for Myrcella to be sent to Dorne, finding out that Pycelle reported to Cersei — that he’d failed to see that his nephew was torturing his wife.

He hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t even thought to notice. He was so embarrassed that it was his drunken behaviour that had forced their marriage to occur that he hadn’t paid attention to his wife, not properly.

He had no idea how she spent her days, he realised. They shared the odd comment over dinner, and he’d nodded and responded, but he’d never actually listened to his wife. It was a skill he’d picked up over years of meals with his family — saying yes and nodding in the right places while keeping one’s mind completely on other topics.

Where did his wife go all day? He knew she was learning archery with the Hillmen and Podrick, but what else did she do? He’d never cared. He’d just presumed she prayed, read and sewed, perhaps talking the odd walk through the gardens. It was all he’d ever seen her do. The notes she’d sent had been thank you notes for their wedding gifts, no more, no less. He’d checked them out of some vague concern she might try and write to her family, but what would she say? She wasn’t privy to any war councils, not sitting here in King’s Landing.

How was she spending her days when he wasn’t around? Was she being tortured by his nephew while he wasn’t looking? Had this sort of thing happened before? What had he missed?

What would have happened if he hadn’t gone to the Throne Room that afternoon? Or if he’d dawdled on the way? Had another cup of wine before leaving his office?

Would he still have a wife if he’d delayed? It may not be a real marriage, but Lady Sansa was a sweet girl. Being married to her was no hardship, and well, if he was going to be Lord of Casterly Rock one day, having a noble wife was what was expected of him.

Was that why a bunch of young Westerladies followed his wife out of the Throne Room? Lady Lefford’s father was in charge of stores and supplies of the Lannister army, and she was her father’s heir, sent to King’s Landing for safety during the war. Young Cersei Lennet, named for his sister in the hope of currying Lannister favour, was as far from his sister in character as it was possible to be. The Lennets had sent their youngest daughter to King’s Landing in the hope of finding her a husband, but from what Tyrion knew of the girl she was as quiet and unassuming as a mouse. Why were these ladies allying themselves with his wife rather than the King?

Were they casting their lot in with his wife to win favours for when he was Lord of Casterly Rock? That day was a long way off, and there was no guarantee his father would give him the Rock. Tywin had made no secret that he didn’t think highly of his youngest child, and could probably work out some way to make Jaime his heir after all. So why were the Westerladies aligning themselves with Lady Sansa?

Bronn’s voice interrupted the questions swirling through Tyrion’s head. “The little King’s backed up. Clogged, from balls to brains.”

The sellsword sent Tyrion a meaningful look.

“You think dipping his wick will cure what ails him?” asked Tyrion. It seemed too simple. Surely the scene he’d just witnessed wasn’t due to sexual frustration?

“There’s no cure for being a cunt,” philosophised Bronn. “But the boy’s at that age. And he’s got nothing to do all day but pick wings off flies. Couldn’t hurt to get some of the poison out.”

Perhaps Bronn had a point. It had been a while since he’d been to a brothel — it didn’t seem the done thing now that he was married, even if the marriage was a chaste one — but he was aware that Littlefinger still had the best whores in town. He’d make enquiries. After all, he never had gotten his nephew a Name Day present all those months ago...


	10. The City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancel visits his cousin, and then Sansa and Tyrion visit King's Landing. Sansa finds something interesting in a market, and Tyrion forsees trouble with the starving cityfolk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s take the Hour of the Wolf to refer to like, midnight, and the Hour of the Lion to be about 4pm, shall we? Shush, book readers. Shush.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S02E04 'Garden of Bones' and S02E05 'The Ghost of Harrenhal'. I'm really having fun shifting events around aren't I?

A sudden knock disturbed the peace and quiet of the Tower of the Hand. His wife had already retired for the evening, and Tyrion sat drinking wine and going over some papers.

Podrick also having retired for the night, Tyrion heaved himself out of his chair and went to open the door, finding his cousin Lancel standing awkwardly on the other side.

Perplexed, Tyrion peered into the hall to see if there was anyone else. Seeing no one, Tyrion decided to go on the attack. “Your visits are too few, cousin.”

“Her Grace the Queen Regent commands you to release Grand Maester Pycelle.” _So not a social visit, then._ Lancel thrust forward a scroll. “Here’s your warrant.”

“So it is,” said Tyrion as he accepted the scroll then turned to walk into the room. “Will you take a cup with me? I find that mulled wine helps me sleep.” He threw the scroll, still tied shut, onto his pile of papers.

“I am here at Her Grace’s behest not to drink with you, Imp,” sneered Lancel. Really, it was impressive how much scorn Lancel could pour into that one little word.

“If my sister was so concerned for Pycelle, I would have thought she’d come herself. Instead, she sends you.” Tyrion finished pouring his wine and turned to see Lancel standing in the hallway, turned away from him, his back stiff. “What am I to make of that?”

“I don’t care what you make of it, so long as you release your prisoner immediately.” Lancel once more turned to go, but Tyrion spoke up and stopped him.

“And you received these instructions directly from Cersei?” he asked as he slid the ribbon off the warrant.

“As I’ve said several times,” snarled Lancel as he stalked back into the room.

“And you’ve waited this long to deliver the information?” Tyrion scanned over the papers, carefully not looking at Lancel. His cousin liked being looked at, so not looking at him was an excellent way to get a rise out of the young man.

“When the Queen Regent gives me a command, I carry it out without delay.”

Tyrion knew he had him now. “Cersei must have great trust in you, allowing you into her chamber during the Hour of the Wolf.” Tyrion looked directly at his cousin, pinning him with his gaze as his lips slowly curled into a smile.

Lancel looked panicked. The pretty face wasn’t hiding the thoughts rushing through the young knight’s face. Tyrion fancied he could see the word SHIT being yelled internally by Lancel as the young man tried to come up with something to say.

“The Queen Regent has a great many responsibilities,” Lancel eventually decided to say. “She often works from dusk to dawn.”

“She must be very glad to have you helping her,” suggested Tyrion as he got out of his chair and circled around the table to his cousin. “From dusk to dawn.”

Tyrion sniffed as he walked past Lancel. “Ah, lavender oil. She always loved lavender oil, even as a girl.”

Tyrion closed the door. This conversation was heading in a direction he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

“I am a knight!” snapped Lancel.

Tyrion couldn’t help himself. “An anointed knight, yes,” he sniggered. His cousin began to pace around the room in agitation. “Tell me, did Cersei have you knighted before or after she took you into her bed?”

Lancel froze.

“What? Nothing to say? No more warnings for me, ser?”

His words spurred Lancel into action, who grabbed for his sword. “You will withdraw these filthy accusations!”

Tyrion refused to show he was worried, slowly putting down his empty wine cup. “Have you ever given any thought to what King Joffrey will say when he finds out you’ve been bedding his mother?” He raised his eyebrows.

Lancel staggered, then lowered himself into a chair with a hand over his mouth. He whimpered, then burst out, “It’s not my fault!”

“Did she take you?” Tyrion moved forward, pressing his cousin for more information. “Against your will? Can you not defend yourself, knight?” he questioned.

“Your own father, Lord Tywin, when I was named the King’s squire, he told me to obey her! In everything!”

“Did he tell you to fuck her too?” asked Tyrion softly. He had the boy where he wanted him.

“I only meant —” Lancel exploded out of his chair. “I did as I was bid!”

“Hated every moment of it, is that what you’d have me believe?” asked Tyrion, leaning over the table. “A high place at court, a knighthood, my sister’s legs spreading open for you at night. Oh, yes, it must have been terrible! Wait here, His Grace will want to hear this!” Tyrion moved as if to go towards the door.

“Mercy!” cried Lancel, falling to the floor. “Mercy my Lord, I am begging you!”

“Save it for Joffrey!” Tyrion snapped. “He loves a good grovel!” He opened the door.

“My Lord! It was your sister’s bidding! The Queen! I’ll leave the city at once, I swear!”

“No. I think not.” Tyrion spoke calmly and surely.

“My Lord?”

“You heard me.” Lancel looked puzzled. “My father told you to obey my sister, so obey her. Stay close to her side. Keep her trust. Pleasure her whenever she requires. No one ever need know — as long as you keep faith with me.”

Lancel’s eyes widened in fear.

“I want to know what Cersei’s doing. Where she goes, who she sees, what they talk of...everything. And you will tell me.”

Lancel nodded frantically. “Yes, my Lord, I will. I swear it, as you command.”

Tyrion clapped his hands several times, then moved to clap his cousin on the shoulder. “Oh, rise, rise! Let us drink to our understanding! Oh, you don’t have a cup. Oh well.”

Lancel rose and staggered from the room.

“Smile, cousin, my sister is a beautiful woman. And it’s all for the good of the Realm. Go back and tell her that I beg her forgiveness and that I want no more conflict between us, and that henceforth I shall do nothing without her consent.”

“But...her demands?” Lancel hadn’t forgotten why he’d come here originally, then. Good, there was some brain in there.

“Oh, I’ll give her Pycelle,” Tyrion shrugged.

“You will?”

“Yes, I’ll release him in the morning. Cersei can keep him as a pet if she wants but I will not have him on the Council. I could swear that I had not harmed a single hair on his head, but well, that would not strictly speaking be true.”

Tyrion went to close the door, then had one final thought. “Oh, and Lancel? When my brother does make it back to King’s Landing, as he surely will...perhaps it would be best for you to reconsider how you wish to serve my sister at that time.”

He shot Lancel a cheery smile and closed the door in his face.

Satisfied with how the conversation had gone and the fact that he now had a spy in the very middle of Cersei’s ‘camp’, Tyrion poured some wine and sat back at the table.

He returned to pondering the bill sent to him from Littlefinger’s brothel. One of the girls he had hired as Joffrey’s Name Day present had been damaged beyond repair. As he was the one who had contracted her, he had to pay the Maesters’ bill, pay damages to the brothel, and pay out the girl’s bond so other work could be found for her.

Disgusted, he threw the bill onto the table. This seemed like more than pulling wings off flies — the King was showing a decided taste for torture and sadism that was more in line with the Mad King than any of his Lannister ancestors.

Taking a final gulp of wine to finish off the decanter, Tyrion mused that if ever one needed evidence for why incest was inadvisable, his nephew could surely be held up as a shining example. Perhaps it was good that Myrcella was being sent away, before Joffrey turned his attentions to her.

Maybe he should find somewhere for Tommen to be fostered once the war was over and the Kingdoms safe to traverse once again. He was a sweet boy, and should be allowed to grow up somewhere far away from any tortures his elder brother might want to visit upon him.

Tyrion made his way into his bedchamber, blowing out the candles as he went.

 

* * *

 

Sansa reeled back from the door, her brain struggling to process what she'd just overheard.

A part of her was impressed by how cleverly he had blackmailed his cousin into spying for him. She half-wished she'd taken notes.

However, the much larger part of her was struggling to make sense of _how_ Tyrion had blackmailed his cousin. Lancel was sleeping with Cersei? But he was her cousin!

Though, she had heard rumours… Sansa crept back to bed, leaving the door still slightly ajar. She’d retired to her room as soon as she could after dinner to apply the salve clean, plump, ginger-haired Maester Frenken had given her. Her aches from her beating in the Throne Room the other day still bothered her, and she was trying to spend as much time out of her corsets as possible so they weren’t pushing at her bruises. So that meant spending as much time as she could in her shift.

But, after his actions in the Throne Room the other day, she found comfort in her husband’s presence in the other room. The small sounds he made — paper turning, the clink of his glass and the slosh of wine — let her know she wasn’t alone. She knew Lord Tyrion had increased the guards he had around the Tower, mostly from his Hillmen. The Kingsguard wasn’t fond of dealing with the Hillmen, it seemed. So as long as she was in the Tower, she was safe. She was to have a guard when she left the Tower, Lord Tyrion had said, but he hadn’t specified who and as she hadn’t left the Tower since that day, it was a moot point.

She hadn’t been to see Lord Varys’ since that day in the Throne Room. She had no way to get a message to him, either.

Perhaps she needed to take a leaf from her husband’s book and blackmail someone into being in her service.

And what was it that Tyrion had said at the end to Ser Lancel? Something about Ser Jaime being mad at Ser Lancel when he returned to King’s Landing? Sansa thought about it, and realised that of course Ser Jaime would be angry that Ser Lancel was sleeping with the Queen. If word got out that Ser Lancel was sleeping with his cousin it would be a terrible scandal. Ser Jaime would likely be livid that his sister had been dishonoured in this way — they were rumoured to be close, after all.

With that thought, Sansa blew out her final candle and slipped into bed, lying carefully so as not to put pressure on her bruises.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Sansa and her husband departed the Red Keep accompanied by several guards and some of the young Westerladies who had taken a liking to Sansa. Tyrion had business in town, apparently, and had asked Sansa if she cared to look through the markets in town. Knowing that Alysanne Lefford wanted to buy a Name Day present for her sweetheart, currently fighting with the Lannister army, Sansa had asked if several ladies could accompany her to the markets. So it was a relatively large party that headed through the gates of the Red Keep — the ladies all dressed in bright, happy summer colours, riding in litters to keep them safe from the sun.

Eventually, Tyrion and his men split off to do his business, and Sansa and her ladies headed into the market proper.

There, the ladies flittered around like butterflies — calling each other over to different stalls to show off the treasures they found inside. At one stall, a Lyseni merchant was selling birds who could talk; at another, a Meereenese woman was selling fine silks. Sansa dallied briefly at that stall, but as she still had a pile of fabrics from her wedding to work through, ended up not buying anything. Finding a pretty rose silk that would well suit Lady Genna, Sansa persuaded her to buy it. It was the same colour as her family’s sigil, after all, and the fine golden threads woven throughout it made the girl’s warm brown eyes sparkle.

Her husband, realising she had no coin of her own since her father’s death, had offered Sansa a bulging coin purse that she could use to spend as she liked. So far, she’d not spent any of it. There was nothing she needed, living at the Red Keep. She wanted to go home, wanted to be returned to her family, wanted to know they were safe, but nothing she needed.

As Lady Cerelle and Lady Genna looked over the other fabrics on offer (Sansa could see the merchant mentally rubbing her hands together at the thought of the sale), Sansa’s attention was caught by the work displayed by a young smith a few stalls down. He appeared to have a talent for turning scrap bits of metal into pretty works of art. She saw many House sigils displayed — a noble stag’s head for the Baratheons, the Greyjoy kraken, a stag’s head inside a fiery heart for a House she didn’t recognise, a roaring Lannister lion, and — oh. A wolf’s head. A _crowned_ wolf’s head pin.

 _Robb!_ though Sansa. _That must be Robb’s sigil as King in the North!_. Frantically, she pawed at her coin purse to open it. She knew she had to buy the sigil. It was small, and she thought she could pin it to her underclothes where no one would see it. That way, she could remember her family, and keep them close to her. She just had to buy it with no one seeing her support the King in the North — she had been very careful to be seen as loyal to Joffrey, and she wasn’t about to slip now. But the ladies — her ladies, she sometimes thought — were still discussing fabrics, and the guards still looking at the talking birds. She knew there were probably other spies in the crowd, but she decided to take the risk.

Sansa decided to hide her purchase by purchasing something else as well. She wasn’t sure her husband would appreciate a Lannister lion — his clothing was in the colours of his house, but compared to the Queen Regent was oddly lacking in lion motifs. Instead, she found her gaze drawn by a small dragon, sculpted as if it was curled up in a circle like a cat with one glittering eye looking over it’s tail at her. It was beautifully done, almost like it was going to spring up and fly at any moment. She thought Lord Tyrion might like it — for the past few days he’d been reading a book about dragons in the evenings. He had been so interested in the book said that he’d read the more interesting sections out to her as she sat sewing by the fire.

The evenings spent with her husband were becoming more and more comfortable. In some ways, they reminded her of quiet evenings spent with her family — her mother and her sewing, while her father looked over papers and the Maester read a story out for the younger members of the family. It still hurt that she was separated from her family, but she liked to think that through keeping her head up and being gracious, she was honouring them.

If she bought that little dragon, she could give it as a gift to her husband, and use the purchase to disguise the cost of buying Robb’s sigil. She cheerfully chatted away with the young smith about his craft as he carefully wrapped up the dragon for her, and at the last minute, asked him to slip the wolf’s head pin into the package. He raised an eyebrow at her but nodded, adding the pin into the package and adding the cost to her total. She paid, thanked him, and tucked the small parcel under her arm.

As she hadn’t seen anything yet that caught her fancy, Lady Alysanne had decided to try and find her sweetheart a new dagger so the ladies and their guards moved towards the Smith’s district proper. Sansa and Tyrion had arranged to meet back where they had parted at the Hour of the Rabbit, so they had plenty of time to make it to Street of Steel and back again.

As they crossed through a square, admiring the pretty fabric purchased by both Lady Genna and Lady Cerelle, Sansa found her attention diverted by a man standing on a box and reading a proclamation aloud.

“...All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the Light of the Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion and Bronn walked through the streets of King’s Landing after the meeting with Lancel. He bored Tyrion, but Bronn seemed to find him amusing, particularly when he repeated Tyrion’s order that if anything happened to him, Bronn should kill Lancel. Tyrion was worried about Lancel’s report that Cersei was stockpiling wildfire, presuming it was true. He would have to do some digging of his own.

But mostly, he was worried about what he saw around him. King’s Landing had never really been a _nice_ city, but it seemed even more filthy and miserable than when he’d ridden through it to take up the position of Hand several months ago. The people were gaunt and dirty; the great market had shrunk. The goods he could see for sale fell into two categories — high quality and provided by foreigners by sea, or poor quality and provided by the starving people of King’s Landing.

The Crownlands didn’t produce enough food to feed King’s Landing, Tyrion knew that. Seven Hells, everyone knew that. King’s Landing required food coming in from the Reach and the Riverlands. But the Riverlands had sided with Robb Stark, and the Reach with Renly Baratheon. No food would come to the capital from either of them, and nothing could come from the Westerlands since the Reach and the Riverlands cut them off from the Crownlands. House Rosby and House Stokeworth were providing all they could, but it wasn’t enough. More refugees were pouring into King’s Landing every day, and his nephew and sister were ignoring their plight.

People stared at him as he walked past — he was well-fed, clean, and the richest dwarf in the Seven Kingdoms. They were starving and covered in dirt. Tyrion knew he had to try and feed the city somehow — while also preparing for the eventual attack by Stannis Baratheon that he _knew_ was coming.

“Stannis has more infantry, more ships, more horses...what do we have?” he asked Bronn as they walked through the city streets.

“There’s that mind of yours you keep going on about,” remarked Bronn. Honestly, sometimes Tyrion wondered why he kept the sellsword around if snarky remarks were all he was good for. He had his own snarky remarks, gods damn it. He didn’t need the help.

“Well, I’ve never actually been able to kill people with it,” he shot back.

“Good thing that. I’d be out of a job,” said Bronn as the dodged around a young man leading a goat. “What about your father?”

“He hasn’t sent a raven in weeks,” replied Tyrion. “He’s very busy.” He knew he sounded defensive, but it was hard not to be. His father had sent him off here then ignored every one of his carefully written reports. He covered his hurt with more sarcasm “...being repeatedly humiliated by Robb Stark is time consuming.”

“Or maybe he has sent them, but someone is stopping them from getting through. A good archer can shoot down a messenger raven, no problem.”

“True. Whatever the reason for not hearing from him, we won’t be able to hold the city against Stannis, not with the way Joffrey’s planning on holding it.”

He stopped speaking as they moved into a small square, where a rabble rouser was stirring up the crowd. “Corruption! We are swollen, bloated, foul!” The crowd had cheered ‘corruption’ but had settled in to hear what he was saying. “Brother fornicates with sister in the bed of kings! Are we surprised when the fruit of their incest is rotten?”

The crowd roared their approval at that statement. “Yes! A rotten king!”

Tyrion supposed it was only fair — Joffrey had hardly done anything to win the cityfolk to his side. “It’s hard to argue with his assessment,” he commented to Bronn from where they stood at the back of the crowd.

“Not after what he did to your Name Day present,” agreed Bronn.

“The King’s a lost cause,” muttered Tyrion. It hurt him to say it of his nephew, but it was true. The boy was rotten to the core. “It’s the rest of us I’m worried about now.”

The speaker was still going. “...a dancing king, prancing down his bloodstained halls to the tune of a twisted demon monkey.”

The crowd chuckled, and so did Tyrion. “You have to admire his imagination.”

Bronn shot him a look that spoke volumes. “He’s talking about you.”

Tyrion was aghast. “What? Demon monkey?”

“People think you’re pulling the King’s strings,” said Bronn nonchalantly. “They blame you for the city’s ills.”

Tyrion gaped at his friend. That was ludicrous! “Blame me? I’m trying to save them!”

“You don’t need to convince me,” said Bronn as he moved off.

“Demon monkey,” muttered Tyrion. “Not sure I like being called a demon monkey.”

He trailed after the sellsword, thinking hard. What more could he do to feed the city? He could try bringing in food from Bravos, but that would cost and he wasn’t sure how fast it would arrive. He looked around at the angry, starving people. Next time, he’d ensure he came out with far more guards. And it might be a good idea if his lady wife stayed inside the Red Keep from now on — crowds like this could turn violent very quickly and his wife had suffered enough. No need for her to be subjected to the terror of a riot.


	11. The Riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella leaves for Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic includes scenes and dialogue from S02E06, 'The Old Gods and the New'. 
> 
> See the end for warnings.

Tyrion smiled as he turned the little dragon over in his hands. His wife was kind to have thought of him while she was at the market. She really was a sweet girl. He just hoped he could keep her safe long enough to grow into the woman he thought she could become. From what Lancel had said of Cersei and Joffrey’s plan to defend the city from Stannis, he wasn’t sure he would see her grow up. Or even live much longer.

Carefully, he put the figurine down in a pride of place on his desk. It was a whimsical little thing. Tyrion was fond of dragons; he always had been, even as a young man. There were none left now, of course, but deep inside he could still hope to one day see their magic return to the world.

Tyrion tore his gaze from his wife’s gift and once more turned his attention to how he was going to defend King’s Landing. He had to think of something — they must be running out of time. He expected to hear Stannis’ forces approaching the city any day now, particularly since he’d absorbed the majority of his slain brother’s forces into his camp.

Unless he came up with something soon, it looked like Cersei’s plan of using wildfire might be the best option. Giving the little dragon one last pat, Tyrion called for Bronn to saddle their horses.

He had a pyromancer to visit.

 

* * *

 

“Take care, my lord,” croaked Wisdom Hallyne, chief Pyromancer of the Guild of Alchemists.

The jar of wildfire gleamed with a sinister green light as Tyrion held it in his hand. “I remember reading an old sailor’s proverb: piss on wildfire and your cock burns off.” Bronn snorted at that.

“Oh, no, no, I’ve not conducted this experiment,” the old man said. He shook his head and spittle flew out of his mouth. “It could well be true.”

Tyrion fought to hide a smile. That joke had gone right over the old man’s head.

“The substance burns so hot, it melts wood, stone, even steel!” The Pyromancer was clearly proud of his product. “And of course, flesh!” He gestured theatrically. “The substance burns so hot it melts flesh like tallow!”

Suddenly concerned for his hand, Tyrion gave the small jar back.

“After the dragons died,” said Hallyne as he put the jar away, “wildfire was the key to the Targaryen power.”

Bronn rolled his eyes. “My companion takes issue,” excused Tyrion.

“If I could tell you how many crazy old men I’ve seen pushing carts around army camps, making grand claims about jars full of pig shit —” He broke off as the Pyromancer glared at him. “No offense meant.”

“Our order does not deal in pig shit! The substance is fire given form! And we have been protecting it since the days of Maegor!” spat the old man.

“To do what?” asked Bronn, moving forward.

“The jars are put into catapults,” explained Hallyne gleefully, “and flung at the enemy!”

Tyrion and Bronn shared a look. That sounded...ineffective. “How much do you have?” asked the Hand.

The old man gestured for them to follow him.

“If you can get real soldiers to man the catapults,” began Bronn, “then maybe you’d hit your target one time in ten. But all the real soldiers are in the Riverlands with your father.”

“My lord, this man is insulting!” grumbled the Pyromancer as he led them into a long, dark corridor.

“I don’t know if you've ever seen a battle, old man, but things can get a bit messy. Cause when we’re flinging things at Stannis, he’s flinging them right back at us. Men die. Men shit themselves. Men run. Which means pots falling. Which means fire inside the walls. Which means the poor cunts trying to defend the city end up burning it down.”

Tyrion was amused by Bronn’s passionate arguments for why this was a bad idea. “My friend remains unconvinced,” he commented.

“He would not dare insult my order whilst Aerys Targaryen lived,” spat the old man as he struggled to unlock the door they’d stopped in front of.

“Well, he's not living anymore,” summarised Bronn. “And all his pots of wildfire didn't help him, did they? Men win wars, not magic tricks.”

The Pyromancer let out a triumphant noise as he levered the door open and ushered Tyrion inside.

Tyrion stepped in, slowly, perturbed by what he was seeing. Racks of pots stretched out in front of him.

“We have been working tirelessly, day and night, ever since your royal sister commanded us to do so,” boasted Hallyne. “Our present count stands at 7,811. Enough to burn Stannis Baratheon's fleet and armies both.”

Tyrion could feel his mouth gaping open. There were just so _many_ jars.

“This is a shit idea,” murmured Bronn.

“I'm afraid I have to concur with my advisor, Wisdom Hallyne,” said Tyrion finally. It was a shit idea — but it was a shit idea that could be improved upon. “The contents of this room could lay King's Landing low.” He shook his head. “You won't be making wildfire for my sister any longer.”

He turned back to face the Pyromancer. “You'll be making it for me.”

 

* * *

 

It was a sad occasion, made even sadder by the somber droning of the Septon’s voice as he blessed the Princess on her journey. Myrcella Baratheon did not weep, though. Sansa watched as the young girl bade her family farewell with poise and courage. Her smile may have been tremulous as she was rowed away from the shore, but she did not weep.

Tommen, on the other hand, could not hold his back. His nursemaid stooped to wipe his tears away as Sansa’s husband left the beach. She thought of following him, but no one else had moved yet. She didn’t dare leave before the King.

“You sound like a little cat mewling for his mother,” sneered King Joffrey. “Princes don’t cry.”

Sansa couldn’t help herself. “I saw you cry.”

The King rounded on her. “Did you say something, aunt?”

Sansa decided to backtrack in the face of his anger. “My little brother cried when I left Winterfell. It seems a normal thing.”

“Is your little brother a prince? No? Not really relevant then, is it?” spat Joffrey. He tried to stride across the beach, but the slippery stones meant he mostly slid from side to side. “Come, dog,” he ordered the Hound as he passed.

The Hound hesitated and watched the Princess depart as long as he could before he had to follow the King. Sansa wondered if he was fond of the Princess, the way he seemed to be fond of her.

Sansa had noticed that Lord Varys wasn’t present on the beach. She knew Lord Baelish was off on some mission for the Crown, and that Grand Maester Pycelle had chosen to remain in his rooms ‘for his health’, but it was odd not to see the Spymaster at an event like this when the majority of the Baratheons were out in force. Sansa was accompanied by some ladies from the Crownlands today — as they had seen the Princess grow up she thought they would appreciate the opportunity to see her off to her new life in Dorne. She hoped the Princess would be happy there.

 _It must be frightening to be sent off from your family to a strange place,_ she thought. _At least I had my family with me when I first arrived here._

Sansa wondered how the war was going. Joffrey hadn’t tortured her in the Throne Room again, which probably meant her brother hadn’t won any great victories lately.

Sansa smiled at Lady Tanda and her daughter as they fell into step with her as the Royal party began to move back to the Red Keep. They were to promenade from the River Gate through part of the town on the way back — to show the people the Royal family was still there, she thought.

It didn’t take long for Sansa to realise the crowd wasn’t exactly thrilled with the nobles in their presence.

“All hail the King!”

“He’s no King, he’s a bastard!”

“Murderer!”

“Bastard!”

“Please, Your Grace, we’re hungry!” That got some cheers from the crowd.

Sansa looked around nervously. The mood of the crowd was much rougher than when she’d been to the market a few days ago. People looked tired, dirty, hungry, and angry. She noticed her husband order some of the guards to take Tommen back to the Red Keep via another route, away from the planned promenade. She wondered if she could join them. She was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

“Bread, Your Grace, please!”

Suddenly, something came flying out of the crowd and hit Joffrey on the side of the face. Sansa was fairly certain it was dung.

“WHO THREW THAT?” he yelled as his guards drew their swords and formed a ring around him. “I WANT THE MAN WHO THREW THAT! FIND WHO DID THAT AND BRING HIM TO ME!”

Sansa grabbed hold of Lady Tanda and her daughter Lollys. Her bad feeling had intensified into a fervent wish that she’d gone with Tommen.

The crowd started to move in and strike at the guards as Sansa heard Joffrey continue to scream at the top of his lungs. “KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!”

Sansa heard her husband bark orders to keep moving. She saw the Queen start to run ahead and the Hound grab the King and pull him along, despite the King still screaming for the crowd to be executed. Sansa pulled at Lady Tanda and her daughter, trying to get them to move though they seemed frozen in terror.

The Septon screamed in horror as he was overwhelmed by the crowd and Sansa froze. It was the wrong reaction — the crowd closed in around them and she could no longer see the rest of the Royal party.

 

* * *

 

The screams of the dying Septon mingled with the victorious cries of the mob who was killing him. Tyrion was bodily picked up by a guardsman and carried the last distance through the gate into the Red Keep. Pale red walls loomed up around them, reassuringly solid and armed with guards.

Tyrion could see that the King and his sister were safe, and he hoped Tommen had made it back safely. But where was his wife?

“WHERE’S SANSA?” he roared, only to have the nearest guardsmen ignore him. Tyrion was dimly aware of a Maester asking if he was injured as he craned around, trying to spot his wife in the chaotic scenes inside the keep.

“Traitors!” babbled Joffrey excitedly. “I’ll have their heads!”

“Oh you blind, bloody fool,” despaired Tyrion. This was a disaster.

“You can’t insult me!” spat the King, but Tyrion was on a roll.

“We’ve had vicious kings, and we’ve had idiot kings, but I don’t know if we’ve ever been cursed with a vicious idiot for a king!” he spat as he got in his nephew’s face.

“You can’t —”

“I can. I am!” A small part of Tyrion was enjoying being able to yell at his nephew like this, but the bigger part was acting solely out of terror. His adrenaline was running high from escaping the riot, and he was terrified for the city and his missing wife.

“They. Attacked. Me!” Joffrey tried to defend himself.

“They threw a cow pie at you so you decided to kill them all! They’re starving, you fool! All because of a war _you_ started!”

“You are talking to a king!” roared the King, spittle flying from his lips.

Tyrion pulled his hand back and smacked his nephew across the cheek. “And now I’ve struck a King! Did my hand fall from my wrist?” He walked away from the cowering king. “Where is my wife?”

“Let them have her!” whined the King.

“If she dies, you’ll never get your Uncle Jaime back!” roared Tyrion. “You owe him quite a bit, you know.”

“WHERE IS LADY SANSA?” He ran up to Ser Meryn. “Take some men and go and find my wife!”

“I take my orders from the King,” argued Ser Meryn. They both looked at Joffrey, who was nursing his face from where his uncle had hit him. The King looked at them in return then turned away, clearly willing to abandon Sansa to her fate.

 

* * *

 

Sansa fled down the alleyway. She could hear the rasping chuckles of the men behind her. She bolted through the first doorway she could see, hoping it would lead her away from them, but it was a stable. She was trapped.

She turned and struck out at the man closest to her. His head fell to the side, but he recovered and smacked her harder than Ser Meryn had ever struck her. She fell to the ground and tried to scramble away. All she could think was _get away, get away, get away!_

“Where are you going, pretty girl?” one of the men laughed. “The fun’s only just beginning!”

They tore her dress, and one of them held her down, his rotten breath ghosting over her ear. “You ever been fucked, little girl?” He licked at her face as she screamed and twisted, trying to throw them off her so she could get back on her feet and escape.

“Come here!” They grabbed her leg and pulled until she rolled over and faced them. One of them held her arms down while the others started to tear her clothing as she kicked and writhed, trying to get free.

“Please, no, please!” she wept, over and over. But they ignored her. One of them had just managed to get his breeches undone when suddenly a black gloved hand covered over his neck and pulled him off her. Her would-be rapist was lifted high into the air, and then was suddenly falling, his guts spilling everywhere.

It was the Hound. He’d just killed that man. Quickly, he dispatched the rest of her attackers. He was brutal, uncompromising and efficient in his task.

Soon, he was reaching for her. She cowered back. Was he going to attack her as well?

“It’s all right now, little bird, it’s all right.” The softness of his voice contrasted with the violence he’d just shown, and Sansa was confused. She’d never heard him be kind like that before.

He helped her up, then slung her over his shoulder. He carried her like that the whole way to the Red Keep, kicking people out of the way if they didn’t move fast enough for his liking, stabbing others with his sword.

Sansa wept the entire time, partly in fear and partly in relief. She wondered if she would ever feel safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the bread riot after Myrcella leaves, including the attempted rape of Sansa. If you would prefer not to read this part, once Tyrion has smacked Joffrey and tried to get Ser Meryn to find Sansa, skip to the next chapter. The Hound rescues her in time; everything is fine.


	12. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Bread Riot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of rape in this chapter, as part of the overview of what happened during the riot. Might be best to skip from “By nightfall, the worst was over.” to “Ser Bywater bowed…” to be on the safe side.
> 
> Bronn is his usual rough self.
> 
> Some dialogue in this chapter is taken from S02E06, ‘The Old Gods and the New’, as well as S02E07, ‘A Man Without Honour’.
> 
> Two more chapters to go after this one! This is the longest fic I have ever written :-)

Tyrion continued to desperately argue with Ser Meryn to take some men and go and find Lady Sansa. What he’d yelled at the King was true — without Lady Sansa, there was no way they would ever get his brother back from the Starks. Moreover, their marriage may have been a chaste one, but he was beginning to grow fond of the girl. She didn’t deserve to be killed in a riot, regardless of who her family was.

“There she is!” someone cried from behind him as the Hound strode through the gates. His naked sword gleamed with wet blood and he had Sansa draped over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Her dress was torn and her hair a mess, but she was still moving and hadn’t lost any limbs. Tyrion was willing to take that as a victory and hurried over to see to his lady wife.

The Hound set Sansa down beside one of the walls as some of the ladies who had remained inside the Keep rushed to her aid.

“Are you hurt, my Lady?” Tyrion asked. Sansa just stared at him, her eyes glassy and blank.

“The little bird’s bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage, and see to that cut.” The ladies helped Sansa up, and led her away to where the Maesters had set up a healer’s station in one of the courtyards.

“Well done Clegane,” said Tyrion. He could hear relief in his own voice.

“I didn’t do it for you,” said the Hound. He turned and walked away, wiping the blood off his sword with his formerly white cloak.

Tyrion stood there, the adrenaline draining from his body and being replaced by weariness. His wife was safe. There was still a chance they could get his brother back.

“ _Fire!_ ” screamed a voice from the top of the walls. “My Lord, there’s smoke in the city! Flea Bottom’s afire!”

Tyrion cursed fluently. There was no time for weariness — he was the Hand of the King. He could not dodge his responsibilities to the city or the Realm.

“Bronn! Take as many men as you need and see that the water wagons are not molested.” He thought suddenly of the wildfire. If the fire spread down the Street of Sisters it would reach the Guild of Alchemists… “We can lose all of Flea Bottom if we must, but on no account must the fire reach the Guild of Alchemists, is that understood?”

Bronn nodded, his face showing he understood the risk if the wildfire caught light.

Tyrion snapped orders at others, sending out parties of guards to help crush the riot and defend important locations — the Guild of Goldsmiths, the Guild of Jewellers, the Great Sept. A runner came to tell him that Prince Tommen had safely returned to the Keep, and Tyrion felt a small part of him relax at the news. His sister came to yell at him about something, but Tyrion just let her rage. There was nothing she could do stuck in here with him, so he tuned her out.

By nightfall, the worst was over. The guards atop the walls reported that the fires were out, as did Bronn when he and his men returned, soot-smudged and croaking from the smoke.

Ser Jacelyn Bywater delivered the butcher’s bill as Tyrion picked at his dinner of cold capon and brown bread in the gloom of his solar. He could hear movement and see light in his wife’s room, but for now he wanted to wallow in the gloom of what had happened.

Ser Preston, Ser Santagar, the High Septon, his nephew Tyrek: all either dead or missing. Lady Tanda’s daughter, Lollys, had been found wandering naked on Sowbelly Row, her thighs streaked with the cum of the various men who had raped her.

Ser Bywater bowed and left the acting Hand to wallow in the gloom. He didn’t get to wallow for long — Bronn, freshly washed and carrying a jug of wine, came to make his report.

“We held the cunts back today but I make no promises for tomorrow,” sighed Bronn as he took a seat. “The whole fucking city’s ready to boil over. So many thieves and murderers are around that no man’s house is safe. A bloody flux is sweeping through the poor bastards who live in the stews along Pisswater Bend, and there’s no food to be had for coppers or silvers. The anger we saw in the square a few days ago has multiplied a hundredfold. There’s open talk of rebellion in the guilds and merchant halls now.”

“Tell me some good news, why don’t you? Do you need more men?”

“There isn’t any to be told, and the number of men ain’t the problem, their quality is,” huffed Bronn. “I don’t trust half the men I have now — and most of them are far from fully trained. Slynt tripled the size of the Watch, but if you knew the amount of brutes, sots, cravens, and traitors currently wearing a gold cloak you’d shit your pretty little ass off. And speaking of your ass, it’s you they blame.” He stabbed his finger in Tyrion’s direction.

“Me? But I’m trying to protect them!”

“They don’t know that. They just see the demon monkey Lannister. There’s no love felt for your family here — the smallfolk remember how it was your father who sacked the city when Aerys was king, how it was your brother who murdered the Mad King.” Bronn pulled out a knife and started to clean under his nails. “Your nephew who killed Ned Stark, and, if the rumours are true, your sister who murdered King Robert.”

Tyrion started to respond, but Bronn talked over him. “They whisper that the gods are punishing the city for the sins of your family — and talking openly about how much better life was under King Robert. They also hint that times would be better again with his brother on the throne.”

Appetite completely gone, Tyrion pushed his plate away. The sellsword immediately began to eat it himself.

“First you bring me bad news, then you steal my food,” griped Tyrion but his heart wasn’t in it. He had long expected what Bronn had just said, but to hear it laid out so starkly was disheartening. Perhaps the gods were punishing his family for their follies — but Tyrion was more than his family. Acting as Hand was his chance to show his father he would be a capable heir. If that meant defending a city of ungrateful idiots then that’s what he was going to do.

He needed better information. Tyrion shouted for Pod, and sent the boy running to find Varys. Bronn finished off the capon, and built up the fire over Tyrion’s objections.

“You might want to brood in the darkness, my lord, but I refuse to freeze my balls off just because you’re having a sulk.”

Tyrion wondered if he should dismiss his friend back to his own rooms, but decided against it. He trusted Bronn more than he trusted Varys — if the Spider gave him a wildly different report of the state of the city, he’d rather know about it sooner rather than later. Bronn was remarkably good at irritating the lords of King’s Landing enough that the truth spilled out of them sooner or later. And he knew that the Spider happened to loathe the sellsword’s uncouth ways.

The fire was well and truly blazing and the jug of wine mostly empty by the time Varys arrived.

“Where have you been?” Tyrion demanded.

“About the King’s business, my Lord,” deflected the eunuch.

“Ah, yes, the _King_ ,” Tyrion muttered. “If today has shown us anything, it is that my nephew is not fit to sit a privy, let alone the Iron Throne.”

“Every apprentice must be taught his trade,” shrugged Varys.

“Half the ‘prentices on Reeking Lane could rule better than that twat,” commented Bronn from where he was leaning on the mantle. “Ever think of how easy life would be if the other one had been born first? The weepy one seems like he’d do whatever he was told, like a good little king should.”

A sudden chill stole down Tyrion’s spine. There was only one way for Tommen to become King, and as much as Tyrion loathed the vicious idiot currently on the Iron Throne, he was still family. “I could have your head off for saying that,” he commented.

“Aye, but then who would guard your back?” chortled Bronn, clearly dismissing the threat.

“Friends,” interrupted Varys, “quarrelling will not serve us. I beg you both, take heart.”

“Whose?” asked Tyrion sourly. He could think of several tempting choices.

 

* * *

 

Sansa stood still while Aly carefully examined the dressing the Maesters had put on her cut.

“Well, they did an acceptable job,” Aly finally declared. She started to help Sansa out of her torn dress and into a tub of clean water. Carefully, she washed the dirt from her mistress, carefully dabbing around the cuts and scrapes that littered her arms and legs. She was washing Sansa’s hair, avoiding the dressing, when Sansa finally spoke.

“I thought they were going to kill me.” Sansa could barely recognise her own voice. It sounded like it was coming from far away.

“They probably thought they were going too,” remarked Aly as she carefully poured water over Sansa’s head to remove the suds.

“He hated me, the man who hit me. _Hated_ me. I saw it in his eyes,” Sansa continued as if Aly had never spoken.

Satisfied that her mistress was clean, Aly helped her out of the tub and proceeded to towel her dry. Sansa let Aly move her around as if Sansa was a doll. Sansa was usually much more self-reliant than that — she may have been a high-born lady, but her parents hadn’t raised any of their children to be waited on hand and foot.

But tonight, Sansa felt...lost. It was like when Joffrey had taken her up on the castle walls and shown her her father’s head. Her septa’s head. She felt far away, like everything that was happening was happening to someone else.

She wasn’t sure how to come back.

“He never met me before, but he hated me. He wanted to hurt me. Why? Why would a stranger want to hurt me like that?”

“Of course he did. You are everything he will never have. Your horse eats better than his children.” Aly walked Sansa over to her bed and pulled the covers down. Absently, Sansa got underneath the covers. “It doesn’t matter now, he’s dead,” continued Aly as Sansa curled into a ball.

“I would have given him bread if I had any. Why does nobody have any bread? Why is the King starving his people?” Suddenly Sansa’s mood changed. “I hate the King more than any of them!”

Aly slapped her hand over her mistress’ mouth. “Hush, my Lady! Don’t say these things! If the wrong people heard you —”

There was an anxious silence in the room.

“Are you the wrong people, Aly? Are you selling my secrets to anyone?”

“No, my Lady. I swear on the Old Gods and the New, I am not.”

“If anyone does approach you...let me know,” Sansa mumbled.

“My Lady?”

Sansa yawned before responding. “My husband...he’s a Lannister. We can...pay. More. Like to know...who wants...maid to spy on me…” slurred Sansa as she drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

There was one thing about the aftermath of the riot that Sansa liked — she was once again free to wander the Red Keep with only Aly or Pod for company. The guards assigned to her by her husband after her beating in the Throne Room had been sent to other duties. She kept to lesser paths and corridors and had managed to avoid the King or any of his guards for several days. She enjoyed resuming her lessons with Lord Varys — the hatred of the strangers in the riot had shown her she still had much to learn about how the world operated outside of Winterfell and stories. These days, she spent much of her morning helping the spymaster shift through the mountain of information he received each day — reports from inside the city, from the Lannister army, from the spies he had on other armies…

It was he who broke the news to her that Winterfell had been captured by Theon Greyjoy. Theon, who in the process of taking Winterfell had taken her younger brothers captive. Sansa raged at that — Theon had grown up with them! They’d given him every kindness, and this was how he repaid them? Sansa had thrown everything she could get her hands on in her room that day, shrieking with pain and rage. Tyrion had checked on her occasionally, but as all she would say was “THEON!” and start throwing more things whenever he poked his head in the room, he had left her alone. At least until she’d run out of things to throw.

She would have been embarrassed at her behaviour, but she was still too furious with Theon’s perfidy to care. She hoped Bran and Rickon were safe. That Theon wouldn’t hurt them. Surely Robb would pardon him, as long as their brothers were safe.

Sansa was on her way back to her chambers for lunch one day, her cuts nearly fully healed and the crowned wolf pin safely secured inside her petticoats, when she encountered the Hound walking on his own through the green colonnade. Remembering that she never had thanked him for his actions on the day of the riot, she stopped him with a “I beg pardon, ser.”

The man stopped and turned, not quite facing her.

“I should have come to you after, to thank you for saving me.” He was so imposing, she felt she didn’t know what to say. “You were so brave.”

“Brave,” scoffed the Hound. “A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats.”

He was being deliberately rude, and there was no reason for that. Sansa decided to give him a piece of her mind. “Does it give you joy to scare people?”

“No, it gives me joy to kill people,” he growled as he finally turned to face her. He stalked up to her, close enough that she could smell his bitter sweat. Oddly, the smell reassured her. His cloak had smelt like that when he had covered her in the Throne Room, and also when he had carried her from the riot. She knew he was a good man, a kind man, even if he acted all growly and mean.

Not sure how to deal with the worrying words but the reassuring smell, Sansa dropped her eyes. The Hound seemed to take that as a display of maidenly shyness.

“Oh, spare me. You can’t tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.”

Hearing her father’s name startled Sansa. It had been so long since someone had spoken of him in her presence! Suddenly feeling the loss of him all over again, Sansa felt honour-bound to defend her father.

“It was his duty. He never liked it,” she snapped. As if the duty her father did compared to the killing this man did!

“Is that what he told you?” he sneered. “He lied. Killing’s the sweetest thing there is.”

“Why are you always so hateful?” she bit out through clenched teeth.

“You’ll be glad of the hateful things I do someday, when they protect your family. They may be all that stands between you and your beloved king.”

Sansa wasn’t sure how to react to that, so she turned and stalked away, leaving the Hound standing in the colonnade. She would have to ask Varys for more lessons on keeping her composure when faced with extreme provocation, she thought as she returned to the Tower of the Hand to find several of the Westerladies all atwitter waiting to have lunch with her. Lady Alysanne’s sweetheart had received his gift and sent a long letter in return. Sansa felt her spirits lift as she watched her friends gently tease Alysanne about her sweetheart, their laughter and jokes helping to chase away the unsettled feeling she’d gotten from dealing with the Hound.

Although she missed her father dearly, she was rather glad the presence of her friends helped to chase away his ghost.


	13. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One game at a time, my friends, one game at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of this chapter is Sansa having a nightmare about being nearly raped in the bread riot. If you don't want to read that, please skip to “Sansa shrieked and woke up.”
> 
> Also, trigger warning for blood.

Sansa fled down the alleyway. She could hear the rasping chuckles of the men behind her. She bolted through the first doorway she could see, hoping it would lead her away from them, but it was a stable. She was trapped.

She turned and struck out at the man closest to her. His head fell to the side, but he recovered and smacked her harder than Ser Meryn had ever struck her. She fell to the ground and tried to scramble away. All she could think was _get away, get away, get away!_

“Where are you going, pretty girl?” one of the men laughed. “The fun’s only just beginning!”

They tore her dress, and one of them held her down, his rotten breath ghosting over her ear. “You ever been fucked, little girl?” He licked at her face as she screamed and twisted, trying to throw them off her so she could get back on her feet and escape.

“Come here!” they grabbed her leg and pulled until she rolled over and faced them. One of them held her arms down while the others started to tear her clothing away from her, even as she kicked and writhed, trying to get free.

“Please, no, please!” she wept, over and over. But they ignored her. One of them pulled a knife and stabbed her stomach.

Sansa shrieked and sat bolt upright. It took her a few moments to work out where the men had gone, why the ground felt like a bed, and why she could hear birdsong instead of the screams of the riot.

It had been a dream. She was safe, in her room in the Tower of the Hand. She put her head in her hands and shuddered, gasping back tears. She'd been having that nightmare since the riot had happened — though being stabbed in the stomach was a new twist.

She was awake now though. So why did it still feel like she'd been stabbed?

She curled her hand around her stomach, and whimpered in pain. Sansa went to stand and find her handmaiden or Podrick to summon a Maester. As she threw the covers off, she realised the reason for her pain. She had flowered at last.

Horrified, she scrambled out of bed and grabbed a knife from her table. She had to hide that she'd flowered. If they knew she was a woman, she would have to sleep with Tyrion. He'd been kind since she was a child, but there was no reason for him to avoid her and her bed now.

Hysterically, she hacked at her mattress, not noticing her door creak open.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion froze as he watched his wife hack at her mattress. She looked terrified, and her hands were covered in blood. Had she cut herself? He'd heard her screaming as she suffered a nightmare, as she had every night recently. He didn't blame her. He had nightmares about the riot as well. He'd often wondered if he should try and wake her when she was clearly having a nightmare. Maybe she could join him in sitting and staring at the fire until the sun finally rose.

He was about to move forward into the room when she turned slightly, and he could see the blood at the back of her nightgown.

 _Oh._ She hadn't cut herself, she'd flowered. Tyrion quietly slipped away from the door. This was women's business. It was best if he didn't interfere. He called Pod to find Lady Sansa's maid. Tyrion figured his lady wife would want the support of women around her today. He wondered if he should ask his sister to come and speak to his wife. She was a woman, after all, who had birthed three children. If there was anything Lady Stark hadn't told her eldest daughter, his sister could surely fill in the gaps.

But then...if Cersei knew, then Joffrey would soon know. While people seemed to willing to let Tyrion and Sansa have a paper marriage since she was still a child, now that she was capable of bearing children, the expectation would be that she would.

And Sansa had given no sign that she would welcome him into her bed. Tyrion was very aware that his family had hurt Sansa deeply, and he didn't want to add to her hurt. He meant his words the night they were married — he wouldn't come to her bed until she invited him. He thought they had slowly been building an understanding between them. They certainly rubbed along well together. He'd come to enjoy the quiet evenings they spent together. She was a charming young woman who was much smarter than she let on — though she had started to let slip just how clever she was in front of him. He had developed a definite soft spot for his young wife, and didn't want to distress her any more.

He decided to cede their personal chambers to her today. He would work from the larger Hand’s office at the bottom of the Tower rather than his smaller solar up here. He would give her space, and hopefully her handmaiden would be a comfort to her.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion glared at Bronn. The sellsword was lounging in front of his desk, cleaning his nails with a knife. The sound was driving him nuts — as was his friend's unconcerned attitude to the problems facing them.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. “Do you have to do that here?”

“Like to keep me hands clean,” remarked Bronn without looking up from what he was doing.

“Yes, but do you have to do it here?”

Finally, Bronn turned to look at him, and tossed the knife down on one of the piles of books scattered across the table.

The sound of men preparing for battle in the courtyard outside filled the silence.

“You should start wearing a gold cloak.”

“I don't want to wear a gold cloak.”

They'd had this argument before. It was almost an old friend by now, though for some reason Tyrion always seemed to lose.

“You're the Commander of the City Watch. You shouldn't be dressed like a common sellsword!”

“A cloak slows you down in a fight. Makes it hard to move quietly. And the gold catches the light, so you're nice and easy to spot at night.”

Oh yes. This is why Tyrion lost this argument every time. Bronn could be incredibly obstreperous and pedantic at times.

“Well, you're not sneaking through alleyways any longer. You're supposed to stand out!”

“We had a deal,” argued Bronn, and just like that Tyrion knew he would lose this time as well. “And wearing a gold cloak wasn't part of it.”

“Fine, fine,” conceded Tyrion. “No gold cloak.”

He turned back to his book only to have Bronn start to tap his fingers obnoxiously on the desk.

“What?” he snapped.

“What?” responded Bronn.

“What, what, why are you staring at me?”

Bronn scoffed. “You don't want me cleaning me nails, you don't want me looking your way...why am I here?”

Tyrion gestured to the books scattered around him. “To help me plan the defense of King's Landing! Stannis will be here any day!”

Bronn got up and started to pace, grabbing a small book as he did. “And one of these explains how to beat him?”

Tyrion hauled his book closed and gestured to the cover. “This one could have some ideas, it’s _An History of the Great Sieges of Westeros by Archmaester...Ch’vyalthan_.” Or at least, he thought that was how that was pronounced. “Ch’vyalatesh? Ch’vyalton?”

“Ch’vyalteesh,” stated Bronn firmly. He sighed and tossed the book he was carrying back in the desk. “I'd swap all your books for a few good archers.”

“My Lord Hand, Commander,” greeted Varys as he entered the room to help them plan. “I must compliment you on the Gold Cloaks performance these last few weeks.” The Spider sat down beside Tyrion.

“Did you know there's been a marked drop in thievery these last few weeks?”

Tyrion closed his book and turned to face Bronn. “I did not know. How did you accomplish this marked drop in thievery?”

Bronn shrugged. “Me and the lads rounded up all the known thieves.”

Tyrion could feel Varys’ eyes on him as he asked, “For questioning?”

“Ah, no.” Tyrion resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. Bronn didn't seem to understand the concept of 'innocent until proven guilty’.

“It's just the unknown thieves we need to worry about now,” explained Bronn. From the tone of his voice, Tyrion could tell his friend knew he was going to get in trouble for this but was hoping the trouble would be minor.

“We talked about this!”

“Aye, we talked about it. Have you ever been in a city under siege?” Neither Tyrion nor Varys would meet Bronn’s eyes. “Maybe this part’s not talked about in your books. See, it's not the fighting that kills most people,” explained Bronn as he started to pace again. “It's the starving. Food's worth more than gold; noble ladies sell their diamonds for a sack of potatoes. Things get bad enough, the poor start eating each other.”

He stopped pacing and sat. “The thieves, they love a siege. Soon as the gates are sealed they steal all the food. By the time it's all over, they're the richest men in town.”

Varys chimed in at this point. “Given the circumstances, my Lord, I believe extreme measures are warranted.”

Bronn sat back, victorious. Tyrion understood the logic — Bronn's argument was compelling. But it still didn't sit right with him. If he accepted tactics like this in a time of emergency, what would he accept in a time of peace? The people might have dubbed him a demon monkey but he was doing his best to be a fair Hand.

Varys leaned forward to see what he was reading. “Ah, An History of the Great Sieges of Westeros. Thrilling subject. Shame Archmaester Ch’vyalton wasn't a better writer.”

Tyrion leaned forward to grab a map of the city while Bronn resumed cleaning his nails. They'd had many meetings, the three of them, sorting out the business of preparing the city for the siege, and Bronn had quickly dropped even his smallest nod to polite behaviour in front of the Spider. Varys and Bronn were both imminently practical men, in their own ways. They seemed to understand each other.

“Stannis knows King's Landing,” began Tyrion. Varys nodded; Stannis had spent a large amount of time in the city since Robert had been crowned king. “He knows where the walls are strongest, and he knows which gates are weakest.” He looked over the unfurled map. “The Mud Gate.”

It was the Gate they had returned to the city through after farewelling Myrcella.

“A good ram could batter it down in minutes, and it's only 50 yards from the water,” remarked Bronn as he flicked something out from under a nail.

“That's where he'll land,” agreed Tyrion.

“And if Stannis does attack the Mud Gate, what is our plan?”

“We could throw books at his men,” suggested Bronn.

Varys did delight in playing the straight man to the sellsword’s jokes. “We don't have enough books.”

“We don't have that many men, either,” responded Bronn.

“What do we have?” Varys asked.

Tyrion once again resisted the urge to put his head in his hands and groan. Dealing with a blood-soaked, hysterical wife would maybe have been a better use of his day.

Then again, they did have one weapon that Stannis didn't.

“Pig shit.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa sat sipping some willowbark tea. Aly had helped her hide the evidence of her period and had supplied her with some of the cloth pads she used during her moon time so she wouldn't bleed through her dresses. She'd also found her some of this tea to help with the cramps — she'd had a small amount of milk of the poppy left from being treated by the Maesters after the riot but it made her terribly groggy. The tea was helping reduce the pain without any other side effects and she was grateful for it.

She thought she could trust Aly. Her handmaiden had warned her not to trust anyone, but Sansa hadn't picked anything up from her that made her suspicious. She'd displayed none of the five signs of lying Lord Varys had taught her to recognise, so either her handmaiden was to be trusted or she was a very, very good liar.

It was a messy business, much messier and more painful than her mother had led her to believe. She wished her mother was there. Lady Catelyn would have stroked her hair and assuaged her fears. But instead of being safe with her family in Winterfell, she was a forcibly married hostage in King's Landing.

Carefully, she stood and walked out onto the balcony. She could see the preparations for the siege were well underway all along the castle walls. Lord Varys had made it clear what the city was facing - she'd helped him decode the messages his little birds had sent them about the strength of Stannis’ host. She knew the city was vastly outnumbered, and that they were settling in for a long siege unless her husband could come up with something clever.

She couldn't leave, so she may as well help. She couldn't do anything about the defenses or the stores, but there had to be something she could do.

Finishing her tea, she called Aly and Podrick to summon as many Westerladies as they could find, as well as old sheets. She and her ladies could make bandages for the wounded, at the very least. If she started before the other ladies arrived she could begin with the bedsheets she ruined this morning — she could throw the bloodied part into the fire and turn the rest into bandages.

And they could pray. Sansa wasn't sure who she was praying to these days — the old Gods or the new — but she hoped they were listening. Based on the messages she'd decoded for Lord Varys, they were going to need all the help they could get.

 

* * *

 

“You're the Master of Whispers, you're supposed to know everything!” the King complained as he led Varys and Tyrion through the castle walls.

“No man can be in all rooms at all times,” the eunuch commented. “I have many little birds in the North, my lord, but I haven't heard their songs since Theon Greyjoy captured Winterfell.

“The Stark forces are distracted. Now is the time to strike!”

Tyrion rolled his eyes upward. By the Seven, was his nephew this dense? “To strike? My dear nephew, you do see these men preparing the walls for siege? You do understand Stannis Baratheon sails this way?”

Their scouts were firm on this. Stannis was on his way with 25,000 of his own men, 20,000 from Renly's host, and 200 ships including 30 Lysene sellsails. It was a considerable host, and there were only 10,000 men and 20 ships of the Royal Navy to try and hold them back.

“If my uncle Stannis lands on the shores of King's Landing, I'll ride out to greet him,” sneered the petulant king.

“A brave choice Your Grace,” responded Tyrion dryly. “I'm sure your men will line up behind you.”

Varys looked like he was trying hard not to smile.

Tyrion’s sarcasm seemed to have gone straight over his nephew's head. “They say my uncle never smiles. I'll give him a red smile from ear to ear,” he said, partially drawing his sword to make it clear that he meant slitting Stannis’ cheeks.

“Imagine Stannis’ terror,” commented Tyrion in an undertone as his nephew sauntered off, leaving him and Varys alone as the preparations buzzed around them.

“I am trying,” said Varys, frustration clear in his tone.

“You're an intelligent man,” began Tyrion, “and I like to think I'm an intelligent man.”

“Oh, no-one disputes that, my Lord, not even the multitudes who despise you.”

“I wish we could converse as two honest, intelligent men,” said Tyrion.

“I wish we could too,” countered Varys as he turned to look back at the preparations.

Tyrion stared at the Master of Whispers, taking in his fine clothes and fastidious manner. “What do you want, Varys? Tell me.”

Varys bent over so his face was level with Tyrion’s. “If we're going to play, you'll have to start.”

Tyrion nodded, and they began to move off along the walls. “My brother was the youngest Kingsguard in history. My sister became queen at the age of nineteen. When I reached manhood, my father put me in charge of all the drains and cisterns in Casterly Rock.” The two men leaned against a section of castle wall that was out of the way of the siege preparations.

“A most high born plumber,” teased Varys. At least, Tyrion thought he was teasing. It was hard to tell with the Spider sometimes.

“Water never flowed better, and all the shit found its way to the sea,” boasted Tyrion. He was proud of the work he'd done, as unglamorous as it was. “I never expected to have any real power. So when my father named me Acting Hand —”

“You're quite good at being Hand, you know,” interrupted Varys. “Jon Arryn and Ned Stark were good men, honourable men. But they disdained the game and those who play it. You enjoy the game.”

“I do,” admitted Tyrion. “Last thing I expected.”

This time last year he was nothing more than a drunken lush, with a life that consisted of nothing but wine, books, whores, and staying out of his father's way.

Now he was Acting Hand, preparing a city to withstand a siege and he was _enjoying_ it. He had a squire, a good friend in Bronn, and a beautiful wife (who, he was ready to admit, probably still hated him but on paper he'd count it as a success). He quite liked his current life.

“And you play it well,” remarked Varys. Tyrion tried not to preen at that — the Master of Whispers was an excellent player himself.

“I'd like to keep playing it.” Together they looked out over the Blackwater. “If Stannis breaches the gates, the game is over.”

“They say he burns his enemies alive to honour the Lord of Light.”

Tyrion brushed his hands and adjusted his belt. “The Lord of Light wants his enemies burned; the Drowned God wants them drowned...why are all the Gods such vicious cunts?”

Varys chuckled. “In the Summer Isles, they worship a fertility goddess with sixteen teats.”

“We should sail there immediately!” joked Tyrion.

Chuckling, Varys leaned in close and checked no one could overhear them. “This morning, I heard a song all the way from Qarth, beyond the Red Waste: Daenerys Targaryen lives.”

Tyrion frowned. “A girl at the edge of the world is the least of our problems.”

“She has three dragons.” Tyrion’s heart leaped. He'd heard the rumours, but to hear Varys confirm that there were dragons in the world again meant they were truthful. “But even if what they say is true, it'll be years before they are fully grown. And then there'll be nowhere to hide.”

Varys assumed the dragons would grow to the massive size of old then, not the stunted beasts of the final few generations of dragons.

“One game at a time, my friend,” cautioned Tyrion, as around them men continued to prepare for the coming siege. “One game at a time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!


	14. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Blackwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S02E09, 'Blackwater', as well as from A Clash of Kings.
> 
> Settle in folks, it's a long chapter.

The bells rang out through the Red Keep. 

Hurriedly, Tyrion threw off his covers and raced to get dressed. He stumbled out of his chamber, struggling with the ties on his jerkin, to see his wife emerge from her chamber tying her dress closed. For a moment, they stood and stared at each other.

“Are you afraid, my Lord?” asked Sansa in a trembling voice.

This wasn't the time for bravery. Best she knew what could happen if the mad plan he and Bronn had come up with failed.

“If the city falls, Stannis will burn every Lannister he can find. Of course I'm afraid.”

Sansa gave him a considering look, then swooped down to kiss his cheek. “Then fight well, my Lord. I'm not ready to be a widow, not yet.”

Tyrion was thrown by her gesture, but reached out and grabbed her hand as she turned to move away. “Better a widow than dead. If anything happens to me, you would be best to throw yourself to his mercy as a Stark. Plenty will back your claim you were nothing more than a hostage here.”

Her eyes searched his, and she nodded.

“I believe the majority of the ladies are gathering in Maegor’s Holdfast. It's a secure location, easy to defend.”

The Tower of the Hand was too open to Blackwater Bay where the majority of the attack would happen. Tyrion wanted his wife far away from the water. Far away.

“Yes, my Lord. The Westerladies and I already arranged to meet there.”

While he still had her hand, he raised and kissed it. “Stay safe, my Lady.”

“And you, my Lord.”

The door opened to let in Aly, Pod, and Varys. Sansa wished Varys and Pod luck, then she and Aly left to make their way to the Holdfast. Varys wandered over to the balcony as Pod started to help Tyrion into his armour.

“I've always hated the bells,” commented the eunuch as he gazed out over the water. “They ring for horror, for dead kings, for the city under siege…”

“For weddings,” snarked Tyrion as Pod pulled a strap tight.

“Exactly.” He turned to face Tyrion and his squire. “Podrick, is that it?”

The boy and Tyrion both looked at him. “Is that it? Nice touch. As if you don't know the name of every boy in town.”

Pod was ignoring both of them, methodically strapping Tyrion into his armour.

“I’m not entirely sure what you're suggesting...do you trust him?”

“I'm entirely sure you're entirely sure what I'm suggesting, and oddly enough yes, I do.”

Pod smiled up at him and continue his work.

“Good.” Swiftly now, Varys moved towards Tyrion and pulled a roll of paper from his copious sleeves. He unfurled it to show a map of King's Landing. “The map you asked for.”

It wasn't a map of the city, it was a map of the tunnels underneath.

“There must be twenty miles or more of tunnels,” remarked Tyrion as he bent to examine it.

“Closer to fifty. The Targaryens built this city to withstand a siege and to provide escape if necessary.”

For a minute, Tyrion wondered if he should call Sansa back and send her through the tunnels. But where would she go? She was a gentle soul — her best bet, should King's Landing fall, would be to beg for mercy from Stannis.

“I’m not escaping. Strange as it sounds, I'm the captain of this ship. And if the ship goes down, I go with it.”

Varys nodded slowly. “That is good to hear. Though I'm sure many captains say the same while their ship is afloat.”

Tyrion and Varys smirked at each other. Really, if there was a risk the city would fall, Tyrion was sure Varys would have fled long ago.

Unless he was working for Stannis. Was this all a double-cross?

“You look well suited for battle, my lord,” continued Varys.

“And yet, I'm not.” The armour was the finest money could buy, but fine armour could only do so much. He wasn't a soldier or a warrior and he knew it.

“For all our sakes, I hope you are wrong. My little birds tell me that Stannis Baratheon has taken up with a Red Priestess from Asshai.”

“What of it?” The small straps holding on Tyrion’s shoulder pieces was giving Pod trouble.

“You don't believe in the old powers, my Lord?”

“Blood spells, curses, shape-shifting...what do you think?”

“I think you believe in what you see, and in what those you trust have seen.” Varys smiled and looked down. “You probably don't entirely trust me, do you?”

“Don't take it personally. I don't entirely trust myself.”

“Yet I have seen things. And heard things.” Tyrion raised his eyes from watching Pod to look at Varys. The Spider looked almost...scared. “Things you have not. Things I wish I had not. I don't believe I've ever told you how I was cut.”

To his credit, Pod barely paused in his work when Varys said this.

It was a weird time for this conversation to happen, but Tyrion had always been curious about it. Pasting a bored expression on his face, Tyrion shook his head slightly. “No, I don't believe you have.”

“One day, I will. The dark arts provided Lord Stannis with his armies and paved his path to our door. For a man in service to such powers to sit on the Iron Throne...I can think of nothing worse. And tonight, I believe you are the only man who can stop him.”

Tyrion was overwhelmed. He wasn't used to people having such faith in him. He looked around to see how much more Pod had to do to get him ready, only to see the boy standing there, offering him his axe.

This was it. He was needed on the walls. It was time for the battle to begin.

 

* * *

 

The Queen and Prince Tommen entered the room at the top of Maegor’s Holdfast, trailed by the gaunt, bald figure of Ser Ilyn Payne. Sansa sat with the Westerladies on the bunk beds erected along one wall, straining see something, anything, through the windows. The glass was old and thick, and it was hard to make anything out other than the yellow torches flickering upon the wall.

“Sansa,” the Queen called from where she was sitting on a small stage. “I was wondering where our little dove had flown.” Sansa got up and approached the Queen, dipping into a curtsey when she reached the stage. “You look pale, child.”

“I am concerned for the battle, your Grace. My husband and your son are out there; I pray for them.”

The Queen stared at her, unblinking, then turned to her attendant. “Pour Lady Sansa some wine.”

Sansa tried to refuse. It was true what she had told her husband on their wedding day — she did not have a taste for wine. “I’m not thirsty, your Grace.”

“So? I didn’t offer you water.”

Sansa knew she had no option but to accept the wine, and drink it as slowly as possible. Looking around for something to distract her from the wine she was now holding, her eyes fell on Ser Ilyn. “Your Grace, what’s he doing here?”

“Ser Ilyn? He’s here to defend us. When the axes smash down those doors, you may be glad to have him.”

Sansa didn’t understand. “But we have guards to defend us.”

“Guards we have paid. Should the city fall, they'll be the first ones out of the doors.” The Queen took a sip of wine, just as the door banged open and a guardsman marched in then bowed to the Queen.

“The lads caught a groom and two maids trying to sneak away with a stolen horse and some gold cups.”

“The battle's first traitors,” commented Cersei with a little moue of her lips. “Have Ser llyn see to them. Put their heads on spikes outside the stables as a warning.” The guard bowed again and left, slamming the door behind them.

The Queen turned her gaze to Sansa. “The only way to keep the small folk loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy. Remember that, if you ever hope to become a great lady.” She sipped at her wine.

“You said he was here to protect us.”

“He is. Traitors are a danger to us all.” The Queen finished her wine and held her glass out again. “More.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion made his way along the castle walls, followed by Pod. He could hear fear causing chaos down in the Red Keep, but up here on the walls everything was silent in readiness. Tyrion fancied he could hear every raindrop hitting the castle walls. He found a place from which he could see out over Blackwater Bay, and was soon joined by Joffrey, Lancel, and several members of the Kingsguard.

“Where’s our fleet?” asked Lancel indignantly.

“Away,” answered Tyrion in a clipped tone. He was too nervous about his and Bronn’s plan to waste time on niceties.

“Why isn’t it here now? They’re coming,” whined the King. Tyrion didn’t answer, still staring out over the Bay. “Hound, tell the Hand that his King has asked him a question.”

“The King has asked you a question.” The Hound sounded less than thrilled at becoming Joffrey’s mouthpiece. _Gods, the King really is an immature little shit,_ thought Tyrion while the majority of his attention remained looking out over the water. _Well, two can play at this game._

“Lancel, tell the Hound to tell the King that the Hand is extremely busy.”

“The Hand of the King would like me to tell you to tell the King…”

“If I tell the Hound to cut you in half, he'll do it without a second thought!” interrupted Joffrey.

 “That would make me the quarterman. It just doesn't have the same ring to it. Cut me in half and I won't be able to give the signal,” explained Tyrion. “No signal, no plan. No plan and Stannis Baratheon sacks this city, takes the Iron Throne, puts your pinched little head atop a gate somewhere. It might be quite amusing, except that my head would be up there, too. I've never much liked my head, but I don't want to see it removed just yet.”

Silence reigned at the top of the walls as they all stared into the gloom to try and spot Stannis’ fleet.

“There they are!” Tyrion had to hand it to his nephew. The boy might be an utter idiot, but he had sharp eyes. Stannis’ ships were slowly emerging as they sailed out of the fog and into a patch of moonlight.

“Archers to their marks!” Tyrion yelled, hearing it repeated down the walls as the defenders readied themselves. “Hold fast!” This too was repeated down the line.

“What are you doing? We need to attack them!” The King raged behind him.

Tyrion turned and glared at his nephew. “Hold. Fast.”

“There’s only one ship,” muttered the King. “Where’s the rest of them?”

There was indeed only one ship of the Royal Navy floating out on the water. The Lady Cersei was the worst ship Tyrion could find in the Royal Navy — it was due to be pulled out of the water to have it’s barnacles scraped and rotten and shipworm-eaten boards replaced. Tyrion had since pressed it into service for this crazy plan, figuring that it was the ship most easily lost to the cause. He was also mildly amused that he would be destroying a ship named after his sister.

The Pyromancer appeared at the top of the stairs and lit a torch which he passed to Tyrion. It was time. He threw the torch off the city walls and saw Bronn fire his arrow in turn.

It seemed like an eternity between Bronn’s arrow being fired and hitting the water. For a second, Tyrion thought his friend had missed; that the arrow had struck another boat or had hit the water.

Then the wildfire caught and all Tyrion could see was green.

 

* * *

 

The walls of Maegor’s Holdfast shook. Through the warped windows, Sansa could see a huge green explosion out on the Bay. Her and several other young ladies rushed to the windows and strained to see through the glass to discover what had happened. What could cause such green light?

“Wildfire,” purred the Queen in a satisfied tone. “More wine.”

Sansa tried desperately to see out the window. She knew from her time here in King’s Landing that the Mad King had plotted to use wildfire to destroy the city during Robert’s Rebellion, but she had no idea the destructive power of it. She suddenly realised why the noble ladies of the Red Keep had been sent to Maegor’s Holdfast — it had thick walls and was the furthest tower from the water.

Did this mean the battle was over? Had all of Stannis’ forces been caught by the explosion? Face pressed close to the glass, Sansa still couldn’t see what was happening — all she could see was green and orange fire through the thick glass. She turned away, and sat down on one of the bunks. She wasn’t sure who she wanted to win. There was a chance Stannis would show her mercy and let her go home — but her husband was out there. They may not have consummated their marriage, but she had said her vows in front of the Gods. It didn’t sit well with her sense of honour to wish her husband dead. Other than the embarrassing behaviour that had led to their marriage in the first place, he’d never been anything but kind to her. She hoped he was safe from the explosion at the very least. Being burned alive seemed like a horrible fate, even for a Lannister.

To take her mind off things, she turned to Lady Cerelle. “Shall we pray for the outcome of the battle?”

She and several of the Westerladies sat in a circle, hands joined, and bowed their heads in prayer. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…”

 

* * *

 

Slowly, Tyrion’s vision returned to normal and he could see things other than the green of the wildfire raging across the Bay. He looked behind him — the Pyromancer looked pleased, the Hound looked terrified. But it was Joffrey’s face that caught his attention the most. The King looked like he was close to orgasm at the sight of the carnage. Sickened at his nephew’s reaction, Tyrion turned back to watch what he had wrought on Stannis’ fleet.

As the initial explosion died down, the defenders on the wall could see rowboats skirt around the blaze. The ships at the back of Stannis’ fleet had seemingly survived the wildfire, and Stannis had decided to land and attack.

“He’s a serious man, Stannis Baratheon.”

“They’re coming ashore!” yelled the King unnecessarily. Every man on the walls could see the boats slowly but determinedly making their way to the docks below the Mud Gate.

Tyrion looked at the sergeant master standing awaiting orders beside him. “Rain fire on them.”

The man strode off, yelling commands to the archers.

“There’s too many.” Joffrey sounded like he was close to panic.

Tyrion decided to ignore him for the time being. “Hound, form a welcome party for any Baratheon troop that manages to touch solid ground.” The burned man turned and left. “Pod, run to the King's Gate. Bring any men guarding it here, now.” They wouldn’t need any defenders on that side of the city, as it seemed Stannis was sending his entire depleted force against the Mud Gate.

 

* * *

 

They had moved onto silent prayer when the Queen interrupted them. “Sansa? Come here, little dove.”

Giving her friends a tremulous smile, Sansa stood from the prayer circle.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, curtseying.

“What are you doing?” asked the Queen, slurring slightly as she spoke.

Sansa rather thought it was obvious. “Praying.”

“You're perfect, aren't you? Praying. What are you praying for?”

Sansa smiled sweetly. “For the Gods to have mercy on us all, my Queen.”

“Oh. On all of us?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Even me?” She took a swig of wine.

“Of course, your Grace.” What else could Sansa answer?

“Even Joffrey?”

“Joffrey is my —”

“Oh, shut up, you little fool.” Sansa shut her mouth so fast her teeth clacked together. “Praying to the Gods to have mercy on us all. The Gods have no mercy, that's why they're Gods. My father told me that when he caught me praying.”

Sansa could feel her face rearranging itself into a concerned expression. She’d never seen the Queen this drunk.

“My mother had just died, you see. I didn't really understand the concept of death, the finality of it. I thought that if I prayed very, very hard, the Gods would return my mother to me. I was four.”

“Your father doesn't believe in the Gods?” Sansa couldn’t believe it. Everyone believed in either the old Gods or the new, didn’t they? What kind of person didn’t believe at all?

“He believes in them, he just doesn't like them very much.” She put down her glass and grabbed an empty one. “One for her,” she snapped as she held it out to her attendant who rushed to fill it.

“Here. Sit. Drink.”

The Queen tossed a pillow down in front of her and Sansa slowly sat. She was uncomfortable being so close to the Queen when she was in this mood. She felt like a mouse that had been singled out by a particularly sadistic cat.

However, this was the Queen, and Sansa couldn’t refuse a direct command from her. She grasped the glass and took a cautious sip. The wine was rough, and strong, and it was only her will that stopped her from coughing at it’s dryness.

“Not like that. Drink, girl!”

Sansa took a bigger gulp.

“I should have been born a man,” mused the Queen. “I'd rather face a thousand swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens.”

Sansa was shocked to hear the Queen speak so. “They are your guests under your protection.  
You asked them here!”

“It was expected of me. If my wretched brother should somehow prevail, these hens will return to their cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them, lifted their spirits.”

The other ladies in the room were pointedly not looking their way, pretending they couldn’t hear the Queen’s drunken rant. The room was not that big and Cersei Lannister had a voice that carried.

“And if the city should fall, your Grace?” Sansa couldn’t help but ask.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you? The Red Keep should hold for a time, long enough for me to go to the walls and yield to Lord Stannis in person. If it were anyone else outside those gates, I might have hoped for a private audience, but this is Stannis Baratheon. I'd have a better chance of seducing his horse.”

The Queen leered, and Sansa widened her eyes in shock at what the Queen was suggesting.

“Have I shocked you, little dove? Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs. I’m sure my brother can teach you how to use it. Drink.”

Scared of what would happen if she refused, Sansa drank as the Queen continued to speak.

“Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked? No, you wouldn't, would you? If the city falls, these fine women should be in for a bit of a rape. Half of them will have bastards in their bellies come the morning. As you haven’t flowered you’ll be spared that burden, but not the rape itself.”

So she’d managed to hide her blooming successfully, then. Aly had proved herself loyal to Sansa and not an informer for the Queen. Sansa sought out her handmaiden’s eyes from across the room, and gave her the tiniest of nods, receiving a small smile in return.

“When a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good,” slurred the Queen. “A precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten.” The Queen held her glass out for a refill.

“Drink.”

Sansa drank deeply as the Queen continued to speak.

“When we were young, Jaime and I, we looked so much alike even our father couldn't tell us apart. I could never understand why they treated us differently. Jaime was taught to fight with sword and lance and mace, and I was taught to smile and sing and please, just as you were taught to smile and sing and please.”

Sansa held out her glass for a refill. The Queen’s words struck a chord with her — she too had been trained to be a proper young lady after all. She was skilled at smiling and singing and being pleasing. She sat with her embroidery and prayed with her ladies, a pretty, pious, perfect little lady.

The Queen continued, even more bitterly, “He was heir to Casterly Rock, and I was sold to some stranger like a horse to be ridden whenever he desired.”

Sansa couldn’t fathom it. The King had been old and fat when she’d known him, but everyone said he had been young and handsome when he was crowned.

“But...you were queen. Didn’t you want to be queen?”

The Queen gave her a scornful look. “Just because you wanted to be queen, little dove, doesn’t mean everyone else wanted to be queen. And look where wanting to be queen got you — the child-bride of a demon monkey. Tell me, does he take you, even though you haven’t flowered? I wouldn’t be surprised. He has depraved tastes, my brother. He always did.”

Sansa was spared having to answer by a commotion at the door. A young knight, clearly wounded, stumbled in. It was only when he spoke that Sansa realised it was Lancel.

“Your Grace!”

“What news?” Sansa was forgotten as the Queen rose to listen to her cousin, candle light glinting off the metal chestplate of the Queen’s dress.

“The Imp has set the bay afire. Hundreds of ships are burning, maybe more. Stannis' fleet destroyed, but, but…” the young man dropped his voice into a whisper and bent close to the Queen while Sansa strained to listen. “But his troops have landed outside the city walls.”

“Where is Joffrey?” asked the Queen in a low tone.

“On the battlements with Lord Tyrion.”

“Bring him back inside at once.” The Queen’s eyes were fixed on the far wall, seeming to stare straight through it.

Lancel reared back in shock. “Your Grace -”

“What?” snapped the Queen, her eyes still staring far ahead and unblinking.

“The king's presence is good for morale.”

“Bring him back to his chambers now.”

“Not here?”

“With the women and children? Do you want him to be mocked as a coward for the rest of his life?” The Queen finally looked away from the wall only to glare at her cousin.

“No, but I -”

“Now!” Lancel bowed and limped out of the room at a run to do the Queen’s bidding.

“When I told you about Ser llyn earlier, I lied,” said the Queen to Sansa as she retook her seat. “Do you want to hear the truth? You want to know why he's really here? He's here for us. Stannis may take the city, he may take the throne, but he will not take us alive.”

Sansa flicked her gaze to Ser Ilyn, who stared at her with no expression on his face. He terrified her.

Sansa emptied her glass and held it out for a refill.

 

* * *

 

Stannis’ men had ladders. Of course they did. The defenders on the walls were doing their best to shove the ladders back from the walls and prevent Stannis’ men from breaching the walls, but it was a losing battle. At a rough guess, Tyrion estimated Stannis’ men outnumbered his three to one. Which was better odds than what he’d started with, but still not good odds.

He noticed some of the defenders on the ground in front of the Mud Gate retreating back inside the walls, and went down to investigate. If their men were retreating like that, it seemed the battle had turned in Stannis’ favour.

He found the Hound drinking deeply from a wine skin, liberally covered in blood. The hand that held his sword was visibly trembling and Tyrion could not work out what had frightened the tough old warrior so much. He tried sarcasm first. Tyrion had found that usually got a rise out of the taciturn knight - it was why pitting the Hound and Bronn against each other was so much fun to watch.

“Can I get you some iced milk and a nice bowl of raspberries, too?”

“Eat shit, dwarf,” snarled the Hound.

Tyrion changed tack and went for bluntness. “You're on the wrong side of the wall.”

“I lost half my men. The Blackwater's on fire.”

Shit. Tyrion knew why the Hound looked so scared. Of course he’d be terrified of water on fire.

“Dog, I command you to go back out there and fight!” shrieked Joffrey. The Hound ducked his head and refused to look at the King.

 “You're Kingsguard, Clegane,” coaxed Tyrion. He felt like he was trying to calm a terrified dog that was about to bite. “You must beat them back or they're going to take this city. Your king's city.”

The Hound took a deep drink, then sniffed, his eyes still on the ground. “Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the city.” He looked up, directly at Joffrey. “Fuck the King.” He stormed off.

Tyrion could hear Joffrey huff behind him, but the King didn’t give an order for the Hound to be pursued.

“Your Grace!” A clearly injured Lancel jogged up the stairs towards them. “The Queen has sent me to bring you back to the Red Keep.”

The King moved to push past Tyrion who reached out to stop him.

“If you won't defend your own city, why should they?”

The King looked every inch the scared, unblooded young man he was. “What would you have me do?”

“Lead!” exploded Tyrion. “Get down there and lead your people against the invaders who want to kill them.”

The King wavered. “What did my mother say exactly? Did she have urgent business with me?” he asked Lancel.

“She did not say, Your Grace,” answered the injured knight.

The King blinked uncertainly, then turned to two of his Kingsguard. “Ser Boros, Ser Mandon, stay with my uncle and represent the King on the field of battle.” The King fled, pushing through the men gathered at the bottom of the wall. He wasn’t quite running, but it was a near thing.

 _Shit,_ Tyrion thought. _There goes our morale._ Desperate, his mind spun as he tried to think what to do. He saw Pod arrive, leading the men from the King’s Gate, as mutters started to spread through the crowd.

“Where is the King?”

“Why isn't he with us?”

“Who are we fighting for?”

“Who leads us?”

Pod climbed the stairs and stood in front of Tyrion, questions in his eyes.

“I'll lead the attack,” mumbled Tyrion to himself. It was the only thing he could think of. The King had fled, and unless he led the attack and led it now these men would split and run. This was his chance to turn the tide of the battle back on Stannis.

“I'll lead the attack!” he yelled, his voice filling the courtyard and quieting the mutters though the milling men didn’t seem enthused. “Pod, my helmet.”

His squire handed over his helmet as he turned behind him. “Ser Mandon, you will bear the King's banner.”

Tyrion turned back to the courtyard. He’d never heard a rousing battle speech, but he’d read enough in books that he figured he would work it out.

“Men, form up!” No one formed up. Instead the men began to move to leave the courtyard and abandon the battle. “Men Men! They say I'm half a man. But what does that make the lot of you?”

“The only way out is through the gates,” yelled a knight. “And they're at the gates!”

“There's another way out. I'm going to show you. We'll come out behind them and fuck them in their arses. Don't fight for your King and don't fight for his Kingdoms. Don't fight for honour. Don't fight for glory. Don't fight for riches, because you won't get any.” That got a chuckle and the men had stopped retreating and were moving closer to him. “This is your city Stannis means to sack. That's your gate he's ramming. If he gets in, it will be your houses he burns, your gold he steals, your women he will rape.”

The sound of the battering ram was all Tyrion could hear. He tried for one last encouragement. “Those are brave men knocking at our door. Let's go kill them!”

That worked. The crowd of men cheered and waved their swords. He descended the stairs, carrying his helmet in one had and his axe in the other as the men fell in behind him. He was leading an army of men into battle. If only his father could see him now.

 

* * *

 

The Queen clutched her youngest son to her as the young knight returned to the Holdfast.

“The battle is lost, your Grace,” said Lancel. “Stannis' troops are at the gates. When the gold cloaks saw the King leaving, they lost all heart.”

The Queen put down her glass. “Where is my son?”

Lancel ignored her question. “I want to escort him back to the battle.”

“Why do I care what you want? Bring me —”

“Now listen to me —” was as much as Lancel said before the Queen rose and struck him sharply on his wounded shoulder. He fell back screaming as the Queen grabbed Tommen and fled the room.

The remaining ladies in the room started to scream and panic.

“Don't be afraid,” called Sansa, taking control of the room. “The Queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place we can be. Joffrey's not hurt. He's fighting bravely. His knights have rallied behind him. They will save the city.” She sent a calm, assured smile around the room as several of the Westerladies shifted around to stand behind her in a silent show of support. “Shall we sing a hymn?”

Lady Genna stepped up to her and took Sansa’s hand. An accomplished singer, she led off in her clear, beautiful soprano: “Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…”

 

* * *

 

The rusted chain gave way under the guard’s axe and the city defenders shoved open the gate. Tyrion had used the map of tunnels Varys had given him earlier to lead the men to a position at the back of Stannis’ forces, so they could come from behind and ‘fuck them in their arses’, as he’d so confidently put it.

He was one of the first men out. He was their leader, it was only right that he was. He ran up behind one of Stannis’ soldiers who was watching the ram and cut through his leg in one blow. The man fell backwards and before he could do more than yell in surprise, Tyrion swung his ax again and cut his throat. He paused, just briefly. He’d never expected to kill a man on the field of battle, for all he’d killed a man with a shield to save Catelyn Stark all those moons ago.

He rallied his spirits. “Men! Attack!”

His men fell on Stannis’ forces. They were taken from surprise, and in the precious moments it took them to realise they were being attacked, Tyrion’s forces managed to take out a number of men and seize control of the battering ram.

“Roll it over!” he yelled. Battering rams were heavy and poorly weighted - he knew once it was upside down and on the ground it would take considerable effort to use it again. One of the remaining defenders on the wall threw a burning torch into the boat carrying the battering ram and Tyrion’s soldiers began to cheer.

“Halfman! Halfman! Halfman!” He took off his helmet and tried to swipe his sweaty hair from out of his eyes. They’d won this victory, but it seemed too simple.

Some instinct made him turn, and when his eyes adjusted from looking at the fire he could see what was coming towards him.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Here came the majority of Stannis’ forces. He’d landed them further down the beach, away from the Mud Gate and out of the line of fire of the majority of the defenders.

The two armies met in a mighty clash of swords and pain. Men screamed as they thrust forward with their weapons, and they screamed as they were killed. All around Tyrion was a swirling confusion of bodies and legs.

He ducked as a Baratheon soldier swung at him with a hammer. He kept moving as the man made wilder and wilder swings, until the soldier was tackled by one of the city’s defenders. Tyrion saw Ser Mandon standing in front of him, his armour drenched in blood. Tyrion smiled, then went to find another Baratheon soldier to engage. He was good at sneaking up behind them and slicing through their legs, he’d found. It was when they met him head on that he had problems, as he’d discovered with the previous soldier.

Suddenly, Ser Mandon took two great steps and raised his sword up high. Yelling in surprise, Tyrion stumbled back and fell so Ser Mandon’s sword glanced down his face instead of cutting through his head. Tyrion could feel his face split open from the sharp point of the sword and froze, shocked, as Ser Mandon raised his arm to swing again.

Except the downstroke never came. A spear protruded through Ser Mandon’s mouth and the man fell forward, dead. Behind him stood Pod.

Tyrion gasped and started to fall. Pod lunged forward and caught him.

“Be still, my Lord, you’re hurt bad.”

Pod’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. Tyrion blinked, his vision fuzzing, as he saw a wall of cavalry storming towards him. When had Stannis had time to disembark his horses?

As the horses galloped past, Tyrion thought he saw he saw his father. Then his vision went black and he saw no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is done! My first multichapter fic! Massive thanks go to [brookebond](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond), my beta and cheerleader over this whole thing.
> 
> How long until the next story is up? Well, I've written about half of it. Brookebond and I are both taking some time off over Christmas, but I hope to have the sequel finished by the end of January. I'll probably follow a similar posting schedule - finish writing it, then post a chapter a week until it's done.
> 
> I also have a few other stories in the works - I have a Brooklyn 99 one shot that I'm hoping to post early in January, as well as some Stranger Things stories, as well as maybe a Margaery/Sansa fic. 
> 
> Want to know when I post new things? Subscribe to me as an author. Only want to know when I post the sequel to this story? Subscribe to the series.
> 
> To those of you who read and commented on each chapter, thank you so much. You kept me going, you made posting each chapter fun, and I hope you stick around for what I'll be writing in the future.
> 
> Actually, to anyone reading this...thanks.
> 
> Come follow me at [lbswasp](https://lbswasp.tumblr.com/) if you want :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at [Tumblr ](http://www.lbswasp.tumblr.com) :-)


End file.
